


My Eyes Adored You

by meinposhbastard



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Bonding, Bottom!Hannibal, Bottom!Will, Cannibalism, Creature Fic, Creature Hannibal Lecter, Creature Mischa, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, M/M, Mischa Lecter Lives, Possessive Hannibal Lecter, Protective Hannibal Lecter, Protective Mischa Lecter, Protective Will Graham, Slow Burn, Switches, Top!Will, Will Graham is a Cannibal, courting, eventually, not-quite-human Will, top!Hannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 10:54:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27469837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meinposhbastard/pseuds/meinposhbastard
Summary: Will Graham thought he would waste away, his days spent in peace and quiet, now that he is truly alone. But then the nightmares and sleepwalking started and he’s not sure why he seems to always walk towards one destination. What is his tired, confused mind looking for?Hannibal Lecter and his sister, Lady Mischa, return to their family castle after years of living with their Uncle Robert and Aunt Murasaki. Neither account for the man that lives on the outskirts of the Lecter grounds.
Relationships: Hannibal Lecter & Mischa Lecter, Will Graham & Mischa Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 40
Kudos: 333





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Rise Up Like Glitter and Gold](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7822135) by [Prince_Ofluff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prince_Ofluff/pseuds/Prince_Ofluff). 



> Prince_Ofluff graciously allowed me to write this fic inspired by the worldbuilding in theirs. Go check it out, it's so good!
> 
> Many thanks and kudos to [hit_the_books](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hit_the_books) for the awesome beta! Any remaining mistakes are mine!
> 
> The title is from the song by Denmark + Winter - "My Eyes Adored You". From the same band, "Inside You", is another song that was on repeat while writing this in 4 days. 
> 
> And if you were wondering, no, this was in no way, shape, or form planned. I was just chillin', reading the aforementioned fic and then the muse liked the shadow bit of world building so much that we wrote a fic exploring more of that. The first scene I wrote was the first scene between Mischa and Hannibal. Quite like how Mischa came in this, since I never wrote her before.
> 
> This is a finished fic, but I'll be posting it in chapters.

***

It’s the fall that wakes Will up.

His feet have grown so numb that he stumbled over them. He shivers violently and draws his limbs together even as the wetness of the foliage soaks into his shirt and pants. It takes him a while to clamber up from the forest floor and make his way back home.

The fire in the hearth is just glowing embers, so he takes a handful of twigs and slowly coaxes the fire back to life.

He doesn’t understand why he’s started sleepwalking again. Or alternating between that and vivid nightmares.

The last time he sleepwalked was after his mother died — from what his father told him — and it was always one direction and one direction only. Nothing of importance has happened in the past week or month to make him sleepwalk.

The shadows cast on the wall by the fire feel like they’re laughing at him. They’ve never felt like that before.

Will tosses and turns in his bed. He cleaned his feet in a pot of lukewarm water by the hearth and changed his clothes. Now he curls tightly under the covers, knowing he won’t sleepwalk again tonight. Small mercies.

***

When he wakes up this time, he actually sees the castle rising ominously above the pines and firs, the full moon putting the shadows into stark contrast. He’s freezing again, but at least his feet aren’t as numb as the previous night and he’s still standing. Another bout of small mercies. At this point, that’s what his life is reduced to.

He makes the trek back and decides to devise a lock system that not even his sleeping self would be able to puzzle his way through.

Amusement permeates the shadows in the corners of his room, but Will ignores them.

***

He gradually wakes up as his arms push away at young pine branches, and he’s fully awake once he emerges into the clear meadow. There’s only an old oak tree to Will’s right, the rest is just dew-covered ankle-high grass.

It takes him a bit to realize that he’s not alone.

It’s nothing specific that alerts him to that, just the knowledge slowly sinking into his bones and gut. He peruses the meadow and then he sees it. A shadow sitting on the swing under the oak’s lowest branch. It’s definitely a humanoid shadow and Will shivers again and the shadow resolves into a white and blue dress, stomach-long black curls and almost unnatural white, smooth skin. He cannot see her face well, still shadowed by the oak and the fall of her hair.

Has he started hallucinating ghosts in the forest now? Usually they only come to him when he’s in bed. And always after he wakes up from his sleepwalking. He can, with certainty, trust in that succession because it’s like clockwork. But this? This throws a big wrench in that and makes Will feel even more disoriented than before.

The little girl doesn’t move, so Will inclines his head on instinct, feeling as if he should at least show some respect to this girl, no matter if she’s a product of his mind or not. Then again, what kind of girl would be alone in the forest during night?

“I apologize for intruding.” His disused voice shapes the words even before he fully thinks them.

That makes the little girl freeze; she’d been moving softly, breathing in and out.

Not knowing what else to do, Will ducks back into the forest and makes his way back home. He needs to put more than three locks on the door. Both doors.

***

The next time he wakes up, he sighs even as the panic settles in. He put six locks on both his doors, two latches, and a chair barricading him in, and yet he still managed to get out. It must be because he’s the one that put them there; he remembers everything even while he sleeps. He doesn’t have the luxury of calling a friend to do that for him. He has no friends or people he trusts around him. The last one he did, died four years ago along with most of the Lecter family.

Since then, he’s been living in a dream, alone and adrift.

What changed?

The knowledge has been settling in his bones for a while; the same knowledge as last time. He’s not alone.

His eyes find the shadow in the swing again.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters and turns to leave.

“Wait,” the shadow says and his feet pause almost without his saying so. “You’re not a ghost.”

Will laughs at that, a wincing, broken thing that he didn’t know his throat could produce anymore.

“I wish I were.”

“That is a strange thing to say. No one wishes to be a ghost because ghosts are so easily swayed and become vengeful, wrathful things that ultimately get destroyed.”

Will looks in her general direction. Her voice is so clear and sure, delivering each word with a poise Will has only heard in nobles or cheeky children playing at being lordlings and princesses.

“Ghosts don’t exist,” Will finds himself saying even as his tongue is dry with the lie.

“I beg to differ.”

“Have you seen one?” he challenges.

She leans forward in the swing and says softly, “I have.”

That makes Will fully turn towards her, keeping the distance between them. 

“Did it come to you in a nightmare?”

The girl shakes her head, the inky black tresses waving over her white and blue dress.

“It was real.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because my brother took care of it.”

Strangely, Will smiles at that. “He protected you from what wanted to harm you.”

“He always does.”

Will nods as if he can understand exactly how that feels. The thing is that he finds himself knowing how this faceless brother feels, instead of how the little girl does. There is still such a discrepancy between feeling protective and feeling protected. He has had neither for the past four years. Sometimes he thinks he forgot how it feels.

But right now, the protective feeling assaults his senses all at once. It’s like it’s been hovering over the little girl and Will came too close, thus absorbing it himself. If it ever comes to it, he would protect her, no matter what it would take. He can’t explain that to himself, so he doesn’t even try, accepting the truth of it as if it’s another nightmare.

Only it doesn’t feel like one. The shadowed girl hasn’t tried to scare him in any way.

“Why are you here?” she asks.

Will smiles wryly. “I don’t know.”

“What does that mean?”

“I woke up here.”

There’s a long pause, a cloud obfuscating the moon and plunging the whole meadow into complete darkness for a few moments before the moon shines again. The girl is still there, now swinging lightly.

“That is a strange thing to happen. Why did you wake up here?”

“I sleepwalked,” he blurts out without meaning to.

“Sleep… walked? I have never encountered this word. Does it mean that you walk and sleep at the same time?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. You can perform other actions while sleeping, but mainly you walk towards something.”

“That sounds… unpleasant. I reckon, you have no control over what your body does.”

Will shivered. “No.”

“Do you always sleepwalk into the forest?”

He shakes his head. “It’s been happening for the past two weeks and I don’t know why.”

She hums and Will shivers again. 

“Would you like to sit by the trunk of this old oak tree? It’s dry and there’s a bit of heat coming off the ground.”

He smiles at that. “Thank you, but I should head back.”

“Would you not like to talk for a little while more?”

“I— I’m not good company at the best of times.”

“And yet you have not offended me once since we started talking.”

“That does not mean I wouldn’t without meaning to.”

“It’s perfectly all right. I do not get offended easily. My brother taught me how to navigate difficult conversations and how to bring safe topics up if the other person derails.”

Another wry smile. “That’s a good ability to have.”

“I have more than one.”

“I don’t doubt that.” And then, because apparently Will’s mind decided to take the girl up on her offer, he added, “are you not scared of the dark?”

That pulls a melodic laugh from her. “I would say I am more scared of the daylight than what the night brings.”

He makes his way to the oak tree and sits down where the trunk caves in a bit and some of the strong roots have surfaced. His numb feet find the bit of warmth emanating from the earth and soak it up, returning some feeling to them.

“Is it because you see too much?”

“Mostly because during daytime most people wear masks and it becomes tiresome and boring to talk to their masks.”

“So you believe that during nighttime people are honest about who they are?” he asks, studying her reactions.

She nods. “When night falls, it becomes harder for them to keep their masks on.”

“Maybe that’s because they’re inebriated. Drunk people take leave of their senses.”

“They become ridiculous, indeed, but that was not what I meant.” He waits for her to continue. “Shadows,” she begins softly, “have a way of revealing one’s true self.”

Genuinely curious, Will says, “How?”

She doesn’t answer and they spend a long time in silence. For once, Will’s mind is calm and settled. He expected it to be jittery, looking for the next topic of conversation or being worried that the girl would ask personal questions that he wouldn’t know how to get out of answering without offending.

He falls asleep like that, and when he wakes up, most probably hours later because the moon is halfway behind the treeline, he’s covered in a thick blanket, the kind that he hasn’t had since he was a child. The girl is gone and it’s only the blanket that proves to his mind that what happened earlier actually did happen.

***

The more he talks, the more he finds he enjoys himself. It might also be helped by the fact that she doesn’t interrupt him often. He cannot fathom why a girl like her would find lure entertaining conversation, but here they are. He suspects she is only indulging him, but she asks such pertinent questions, so he is at a loss for words as to why she finds lures fascinating.

She giggles when he tells her that he once caught a trout that struggled so much that it slipped into his waders and he had to hurry back to the shore to take off his waders and get it out. As far as tales go, it is certainly not something one would normally tell a little lady. By now, Will has put two and two together and concluded that she must be connected to the Lecters in some way or another.

Maybe a branch of the family has come to live in the castle — but no one has visited him so far. And they will once they take stock of everything that lives on the Lecter estate. He only hopes that once they do, they won’t evict him because he is not sure where he would go.

He’s explaining a complicated process of how he made his latest lure when the hairs on his hand stand on end. He turns his head and looks into deep pools of inky darkness just before claws slash at his ribs and he’s thrown off to the side, rolling in the wet grass.

“Hannibal!” the little girl shouts.

Ah, Will’s mind goes, it must be the overprotective brother.

It doesn’t even register that overprotective brothers do not have claws. Or can appear out of literal shadows.

It doesn’t because Will understands this feeling so well, it’s like he was the one who slashed the person who dared stray so close to his sister. It doesn’t matter that he has always been an only child, with fleeting friendships during his childhood.

“Hannibal, stop!”

There’s a growl as answer and that wakes Will from his stupor and the pain takes center stage in his mind. He lifts himself and looks down his body, blood soaking into his linen shirt, before he glances up and sees there’s a creature. It’s enveloped in shadows like smoke, tall and inky, human-shaped in the most extreme of ways, eyes flickering red and black, long claws almost grazing the grass. The creature is taller than any human, gaunt, and his torso is slowly curved forward, hips slim and bony, but legs sturdy enough to do damage.

“You are overreacting, he is harmless,” the girl says.

Will tries to not hyperventilate there, his mind feels so fractured, unable to take everything in. There’s anger cloying the air as well as calm and placation. There’s desire, possession, and then there’s a breath of fresh air and mischievousness. How is a little girl standing between him and certain death? How is she able to keep the creature at bay?

Overprotective brother, his mind whispers.

“Please let him leave. I’ll explain everything,” she pleads, though it doesn’t sound like she is. It sounds like she has all the authority in the world to make the creature do her bidding.

“Go,” she tells Will, looking back at him for a moment before she returns her attention to... her brother.

Will complies on instinct. He doesn’t run; he doesn’t even turn his back to them. Only once he’s behind the treeline and he can’t see them, he breaks into a run, the pain of the ragged claw wound on his ribs only fueling his legs.

He can’t distinguish between the branches scratching at his face and arms and legs and the shadows trying to pull him in. They’ve never done that before. They’ve always been there, a presence in the back of Will’s mind that he could ignore, but they never took any action in regards to Will. Did they come to life now because they’re reacting to the presence of the girl’s brother?

He engages all the locks on his doors before he kneels beside the pot of lukewarm water and begins to clean his wounds. The wounds that are slowly closing up, leaving only faint scars behind. His exhale is shaky and an incredulous laugh makes his way out of the depths of his soul. Of course.

Of  _ course.  _

How could he have forgotten about this side of himself? The one that always freaked his dad out and made Will promise he’ll always keep it a secret. He never really caught the flu or a cold, not even if he stood naked during winter outside or was in contact with a sick person. They managed to ignore it for most of Will’s life. Then he died and the only other person who knew about Will was gone.

Will was truly alone.

And now this.

The first reluctant friend he has made in years and she has been ripped from him. But she doesn’t know what he is. Hell,  _ he  _ doesn’t know what he is. Maybe this is for the best. Her— her brother can take her away from him. He can only feel relieved that their acquaintance has not developed further. It would have hurt more.

***

“Do you wish to kill him?” Mischa asks at length after she finishes her tale.

Her charcoal scratches softly at the porous page where she’s working on a portrait of the strange man that has been talking to her almost every night for the past week. The fire is crackling in the hearth and her desk is close enough to it that she can feel the warmth licking at her body. She wonders if her new friend managed to warm himself up and if there is someone who can clean his wounds.

Hannibal doesn’t answer right away and Mischa steals a glance at him, standing by the window, glass of wine forgotten in his hand.

“Would you like me to ask you to kill him?” she rephrases that question and there it is, a reaction. He looks at her, eyes inscrutable in the way that he uses to look at people when warring answers are afoot in his mind.

“I wouldn’t,” she continues, focusing back on her drawing, adding some curls over the stranger’s forehead and more lines on his face, changing the light in his eyes to give him that haunted, broken look that has caught Mischa’s interest. “You are not to harm him in any physical or mental capacity, brother. He has visited the swing oak the entire week and not once have I felt in danger around him.”

“You have not grown into your powers. Must I remind you how dangerous it is to venture outside the walls of this castle? Chiyoh has spent an entire week putting protections around it.”

“She’s never here,” she murmurs petulantly.

“Because her job is to protect us. And her abilities better serve me than you.”

“So you would confine me to the ghosts in this castle?” She glares at him. “Don’t think I don’t notice how you avoid Papa and Mama’s wing or how you find excuses to leave the castle.”

Hannibal presses his lips together. Sometimes Mischa finds herself thinking that her brother is still so young and she wonders why she expects him to take care of her. Yet other times she faults him for being young and still inexperienced, although her brother is twelve years older than her.

“I trust you to look after yourself in my and Chiyoh’s absence. This is the safest place you could be in.”

“There’s nothing to do around here! I can draw and read all I want, but even that becomes tiresome and lonely after a while. We’ve lived with Aunt Murasaki and Uncle Robert for long enough that I miss intelligent conversation. You were the one who decided we should return here. To nothing.”

“We came back here,” he says, voice thickening and taking on the echoing, ominous quality that the shadows give him, which doesn’t really scare Mischa, but does make her pay closer attention to her brother, “because this is rightfully ours and the people have started to forget who their master is.” He pauses, no doubt reining himself in. When he speaks again, his voice is back to normal. “My absence is due to me restoring our name with the local nobility.”

It sounds too simple, too easy, and she thinks she feels there’s a layer there that she has never felt in her brother’s voice. “That is not all.”

He looks at her. “No, it isn’t.” Another pause. “Certain specters and demons have started to encroach on our territory.”

“Are we—”

“Chiyoh has put protections all over our territory. It alerts us whenever one tresspasses which is why we sometimes leave without a word.”

She looks back at her drawing. “I wish my powers would develop already.”

“They will.” 

She sighs because it’s the usual reassurance that both Hannibal and their uncle and aunt used to tell her. She’s always been a bit jealous of her brother and how much control he has over his powers and himself. Compared to him, she feels like a newborn calf trying to walk and stumbling at every step.

“Why has he visited you?” He changes the subject without an ounce of subtility. She knows who his brother is referring to.

Mischa takes time to add folds to the simple cotton shirt. She thinks about adding goosebumps on his forearms, but decides against it. Instead she uses the pointy tip of the charcoal to render the hair on his forearms in a more rigid manner to show the goosebumps without drawing them.

“He sleepwalked there the first time,” she says at length, feeling the pressure of her brother’s stare. It’s what they do when conversations take a serious turn: lengthy pauses abound. “And he apologized for intruding, even though he did no such thing. Someone with less acute hearing than me could have heard him stumbling through the underbrush minutes before he reached the meadow.”

“So he has been visiting you every night?”

“Every night you were not here, yes. But he is not choosing to do so.”

“Has he a name?”

“I have not yet managed to inquire after that.”

“So you have forgotten,” Hannibal says with a smidge of disapproval in his voice.

“Our conversations have been of such a nature that our names have had no importance.”

“What do you talk about then?”

“A bit about everything. Sometimes fishing. Nothing that would hold your attention for long before you would turn to societal niceties and short answers.”

“You think me so shallow that I would not find a man who sleepwalks every night so close to our castle worthy of my attention?”

“No, I think you are devising our next ostentatious dinner with him as your centerpiece.” She looks up at her brother, then, giving him a pointed look. “He is not to be harmed, brother, or I shall be very cross with you.”

Hannibal takes a sip of his wine, letting the fire crackling in the hearth be the only sound filling the sudden still, frozen air between them.

“Such attachment to a human, Mischa. Is it part of your extraordinary temper tantrums?”

“If you’re inquiring after my mental state when you are away, leaving me to this old and cold castle, then rest assured brother, I am well within my mental capacities to withstand your absence.”

“And yet, my absence has resulted in you forming an attachment to a human that is possibly twice your age.”

Mischa straightens and looks down at her drawing. Almost done.

“He doesn’t look older than you. The amount of unkempt hair might have deceived you when you tried to claw his heart out, but he is quite young.” She throws the jabs ruthlessly. “And he offers interesting insights into issues that entertain my mind. Not to mention that he tells fascinating tales.”

“Where does he live?”

Mischa considers the drawing and adds another vein to the back of his left hand, placed over his left knee casually. “Based on his choice of clothing, not far from here.”

“Have you seen the direction he comes from?”

“Unless he sleepwalks in circles before stumbling upon me, then that would be south-east.” She looks at her brother then, his eyes going distant, a soft hum escaping with the exhale. “You know where he lives.”

“There is only one other place that could shelter a human on our grounds. I keep meaning to find the map to it, but as you know our father’s library is in a deplorable state of chaos.”

“What is this place you are talking about?”

“The hunting cabin that was used for weapons and game storage years back. I’ve never been there myself as I was engaged in my studies.”

“You are not to visit him, brother. Not without me.”

An uptick of his mouth. “You don’t trust me to behave civilly with him?”

“I don’t trust his reaction to you, who has harmed him, invading his territory without me there to mitigate the conversation. I also believe it is best he knows to expect a visit from us in the near future.”

“His territory?” There’s amusement in those words.

“Don’t humans dislike unannounced visits?”

“Most do. Among nobility circles it is considered a social faux pas, dear Mischa. Your… friend here did not look like he belonged to such a circle.”

“So should we decline extension of the same courtesy to those not of the noble strata?”

“I did not say that.”

“You implied, Hannibal. You do that a lot.”

He comes by her side, no doubt perusing the life-like drawing of her human friend. He’s sitting with his back to the bark of a big tree, feet naked and dirty, black pants barely covering his shins, and the white cotton shirt with leaves and patches of dirt on it, the open V of the neck revealing curled tufts of chest hair. There’s a haunted look in his eyes as he smiles, but the lines on his face mostly render that smile a grimace, caught somewhere between genuine amusement and chastisement for feeling that way.

“I told him about the foreigners,” Mischa says, feeling her brother’s curiosity.

The simple statement, however, seems to disarm Hannibal.

“You told this human?”

Mischa nods, now unable to really understand why she had revealed such an intimate event of their past.

“He seemed to understand me.”

“Did he?” he asks quietly.

Mischa presses her lips. “I understand now that it might have been a misjudgement on my part, a moment of weakness that could be exploited, but he did not push for more or change the subject. This was the reaction he had when I described what you did to them in vivid detail. Afterwards, we sat in silence.”

“In such a short time of your acquaintance you have revealed such an important piece of information to someone who has all the reasons to betray your confidence.”

Mischa bows her head, eyes staring at the drawing as a wave of guilt washes over her.

“I apologize for my misjudgement. It was not done intentionally. He just— he has a way with words, if you could believe that.”

Hannibal is not appeased by that, because his next words are, “just who  _ is  _ this human?”

Something in that question prompts Mischa to repeat, “Don’t kill him, brother. Not until we find out properly what his intentions are. If he is who you fear he might be, then I will not stand in your way. But if there is even a gram of doubt that he doesn’t bear us ill intentions, then please stay your hand for the time being.”

Hannibal doesn’t promise anything, but he caresses the top of her head before he goes to refill his glass.


	2. Chapter 2

***

There’s something that Will needs to find, something that attracts him like a moth to a flame. But this flame is dark and almost indistinguishable from the shadows that have alternated between being his friends and suffocating him since he can remember himself.

Every night, this something grows and beckons him and he’s helpless to resist. It’s so strong that only pain breaks the spell and Will wakes up as he’s falling. The bed of lichens doesn’t cushion him much, but he’s not paying attention to that because the sole of his foot feels as if it is on fire. When he brings it up for a closer inspection, the clean cut in the middle is healing sluggishly. 

“Intriguing,” a smooth voice says behind him, which startles Will so badly that he scrambles to the opposite side of the dry fountain he’s fallen into. “Good evening,” the man greets politely, a touch of amusement filling his stoic features. “We have not been introduced. I am Count Hannibal Lecter. I believe you have met my sister, Lady Mischa. Might I enquire after your name?”

The overprotective brother. Now he has a name and a face. Isn’t Will  _ just  _ the luckiest? He misses the little girl — Lady Mischa. At least with her, he wouldn’t feel the need to stand on ceremony. His skin is crawling with jitters, just by being in the count’s presence.

“I was introduced to your claws, so as far as introductions go, I think we’re already past that.”

Count Lecter smiles. “I apologize for my slight. I believed you to be someone dangerous.”

His foot finishes healing, so he picks himself up, not comfortable with the vulnerable position, and climbs out of the fountain. The more space and obstacles between them, the better chances Will has to outrun him. Or at the very least give himself a head start. Not that Will wants to be chased through the forest by a creature of the night. He has enough on his plate with the dreams and the sleepwalking.

“More dangerous than you?” He doesn’t mean to challenge the count, but here they are.

The count, however, simply smiles. “One never knows what lurks beneath a veneer of calm.” He glances down at Will’s legs and he knows what he’s alluding to.

“I assure you, Count Lecter, that I mean no harm to your sister. I do not seek her out of my own volition, although she has proven to be most accommodating to my intrusions.”

“On what grounds should I believe any word of what you said? So far you have not proven to be a man of trust. You paid us no visit to explain yourself and your intentions.”

Will falters. Now that he thinks about it, he wonders what stopped him from contacting them first. Possibly the fact that he’s as far from stable as one can get. Or that he’s been too busy trying to forget about himself, take refuge deeper and deeper in his mind, that paying a social visit to the landlord simply hadn’t been a priority.

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because some part of him knew who —  _ what  _ lived in the Lecter castle.

“I didn’t think I would be welcomed.”

“Whyever not?”

Will sends him a hard look, though as all his looks, they don’t land quite on his eyes, more in the general vicinity of the other’s face. The count only smiles serenely, as if he hadn’t almost carved his heart and lungs out on their very first ill-natured meeting. 

“Circumstances dictating our social status,” Will says, adopting Hannibal’s diction and speech pattern to avoid saying something scathing. “Unfortunately, I do not have ink or paper on which to write a request for an audience with the owner of this land, nor do I have a messenger. So what would be the point of writing that message, if I was to deliver it personally?”

“You would have shown good faith and interest in building bridges with me.”

“Or I would have been sliced where I stood.”

“That would not have happened.” Now his eyes narrow, a warning.

“A strange man appearing on your property without an invitation or warning beforehand would have solicited the same response you gave me last night.”

Count Lecter studies Will and he feels seen in a new way. The shadows whisper furiously around him and his skin breaks into goosebumps.

“We find ourselves at a stalemate,” the count says. “We have both wronged each other and we have both apologized.”

Will nods. “I will take my leave, if it’s all the same to you, Count Lecter.” He bends a hand over his stomach and bows, then turns to leave.

“Will you sleepwalk again?” There’s morbid amusement in that question that Will does not like one bit.

“Not tonight,” he says between gritted teeth, not bothering to look back.

He feels the count’s gaze on the back of his neck halfway into the forest.

This is the last straw; he will chain himself to his bed. At least that way he hopes he won’t be meeting either of the siblings. Wishful thinking makes him hope that they will soon forget about his existence.

The shadows are hungry tonight — a novel thing to be aware of — and Will’s skin crawls with the same sensation someone who is about to meet the monster of his dreams would feel.

His small mercies have run out.

***

“I met your friend last night.”

Mischa almost drops her fork on her plate, and it’s only years of practice that keeps her from doing so. She searches her brother’s face for any clue that he is only looking to draw a reaction from her, but there is none to be seen. Her brother continues to eat his sausage and cheese with all the poise and elegance of a man of his status entertaining his guests.

“You promised me you wouldn’t seek him out without me!” she accuses quietly, gaze focused on her own breakfast as she tries to sift through the myriad of emotions brewing just under the surface.

“And I kept my promise.”

“Then how was that at all poss— did he sleepwalk to the swing again? I knew you were too accommodating with my requests yesterday evening. You even read passages from Dante’s Inferno in Italian, even though your accent is atrocious!”

Hannibal sends her a complicated look and Mischa cheers internally at having pulled that expressive face from her brother. He might be incredibly astute at reading people and making them do whatever he wants, but  _ she  _ prides herself in being able to get under his skin and make him break his control over his social mask. But she has to admit that he doesn’t often wear one with her. There is a stark difference between how he is with her and how he behaves when in the company of others. 

“To answer your question and ignore your rude comments, he did sleepwalk, but not to the swing.”

“Oh?”

“I was by the chapel when he stumbled upon me.”

“What were you doing there?”

“I was patrolling the surroundings of the castle. One can never be too careful. If something managed to get past Chiyoh, then I needed to be ready to intercept and annihilate the threat.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “Why?”

Hannibal takes the small bite from his fork, savouring the piece as if it is the most succulent piece of sausage he has ever had — when it was he who prepared their breakfast. Just as he does with all their other meals. 

“You will have to be more specific.”

“Why did you patrol so close to the castle? You said it was protected.”

“One can never be too careful. Your breakfast is getting cold, Mischa.”

She keeps studying him until the pieces fall together and she grins, suddenly and without reserve.

“You’re interested in him!” she crows, picking her fork and knife again to take another bite.

“I made no such affirmation.”

“No, but it’s written all over your face,” she says, delighted. “There’s something about him that doesn’t quite fit, isn’t it?” She throws him an avid glance, but he doesn’t give her the pleasure of revealing anything else. “Like he’s a piece of a tangram wrapped in an enigma. I felt that, too. He offers his insight like he’d offer a hot knife: with reticence but confident that you will be able to handle it once it’s yours. He’s polite, but not overly, just enough to be decent and not offend any sensibility, although I suspect that he does not like crowds or people who talk too much. He says he prefers being alone — but I don’t believe that.”

“What do you believe to be the truth?”

Mischa hums, chewing on the bit of meat and cheese, thinking about the pieces of information he had told her about and the ones she could only infer from between the lines.

“I believe he would prefer to be in the company of a few, chosen carefully, and his.”

“His?”

“He doesn’t look like it, but I suspect he is very much like you.”

“And pray tell, how am I?”

She throws him a cheeky grin because she’s positive he already knows what she will say, but he always likes it when she offers her insight, especially on people.

“Protective of what’s yours.”

Hannibal’s features melt into a fond smile. “And you believe him to be like that, too.”

She nods. “And I also believe he would fight viciously to protect what he considers his.” Now she glances up at him again. “This was one of the major reasons why I asked you to let me talk to him beforehand.”

“Our official acquaintance has already been made.”

“Unfortunately, without my presence.”

“Happenstance, dear Mischa.”

She doesn’t believe him. She also doesn’t put it past him to have made it in such a way as to be sure to stumble upon — that brings another question to her mind, but first, she will go in a roundabout way about it just like her brother.

“I believe you had a lengthy conversation,” she begins. “You do so like to pick people’s minds.”

“Lengthy by some accounts, perhaps,” he says vaguely.

“Did you hurt him?”

“I have perfect control of myself, and I would be grateful if you would cease thinking the worst of me,” he replies indignantly. “What happened the other night has been a misjudgement on my part. I apologized to him in person.”

She hums noncommittally.

“I would not lie to you,” he adds.

“I know.” 

She is about to tell him something she doesn’t think he realized yet, but instead she chooses another course of action. After all, she, too, is fond of mind games. Daintily, she takes the last piece of sausage, chews and swallows, then poses the cutlery parallel to each other in the middle of her plate to signal she is finished. 

“What did you talk about?”

“Nothing of importance. I may have chastised him for not paying us a proper visit to explain himself.”

“I do not think he is able to explain himself to himself. You asked too much of him, Hannibal.”

“Perhaps.” He takes a sip of his wine.

“So does our common friend have a name?” she asks lightly, taking a sip of her grape juice.

Hannibal pauses, the rim of his wine glass touching his lower lip. His gaze finds her and she knows she looks poised to break into laughter. Check.

“That may have… escaped both our attention.”

She giggles, then sombers up. “Then I hope that the poor soul received at least an invitation to dinner.”

If she didn’t know that wine was the product of fermentation and grape juice and alcohol, then she would have thought that Hannibal had found a grape that got stuck in his throat. Such priceless entertainment her brother is offering and breakfast is barely over.

Check mate.

She dabs at her lips and stands up, smiling down at him. “Well, I shall endeavour to find out his name and secure his presence for dinner tomorrow.”

“I will keep you company tonight,” Hannibal says, as if he is reciting the ingredients of a dish, so Chiyoh could buy them in the next town over.

“No need, dear brother. I am sure Chiyoh needs you more than I do. I am perfectly safe here, after all.”


	3. Chapter 3

***

Will is wide awake for once, his father’s hunting rifle placed across his thighs, both hands warming up the wood and iron. He’s sitting on the small porch in his father’s old chair, skin clammy with sweat and anticipation.

The air is prickling with so much tension that Will could not find peace in his bed.

Now he’s waiting, even if he’s not sure what for. 

It doesn’t take much for the wind to carry a strange smell over, followed by the sound of twigs snapping in the soft silence coming from the left side of his clearing. He gets up and slowly aims the rifle at the bushes. It’s in moments like this one that he feels a strange and dangerous calm overtake him. There’s nothing else that passes through his mind, not like it happens when he’s fishing. It’s just him, the weight of the rifle in his hands, and the target at the end of his barrel.

But what comes out of the forest is none other than the little girl.

“Lady Mischa?” leaves his mouth and she stops, eying Will’s rifle which prompts him to lower it immediately, one hand keeping it along the line of his body.

“You know my name,” she states, but does not move closer.

“Your brother—”

“Told you.”

He nods, for some reason feeling dismayed. Then he looks up and frowns at her. 

“How— you knew where I lived.”

She cocks her head, then her attention is briefly pulled away from him, towards the forest that faces his veranda, before it returns.

“My brother cleared that up. He mentioned that the hunting cabin was the only edifice in the direction you usually come from. Why do you have a rifle?”

Will looks down at the weapon. “I’m sorry,” he blurts out. Okay, something is wrong with him.

“What are you sorry for?”

“I didn’t come.” Ah, that’s where the dismay is coming from. He’s feeling very much like he was caught red-handed.

“That is no trouble at all. I feared something might have happened, so I came looking for you.”

“You talk like him,” he says quietly because it is the truth and Lady Mischa has a way of pulling it from Will without even asking for it.

Her brow creases, but she doesn’t have time to say anything because shadows break through the treeline and one jumps on Will, throwing him to the ground, the rifle the only thing between him and the sharp teeth cracking the weapon.

“Will!”

It’s not a cry for help, Will realizes as he manages to throw the shadow off himself and locate her. She’s surrounded by three other shadows and two more are approaching him. The only distinguishable characteristic is the white teeth that look too big for their mouths, and the vaguely humanoid shape.

She’s growling at her opponents and Will makes a split decision and throws himself, faster than he thought he’s able, on the nearest one and breaks inside the circle. He dares place his hand on her shoulder and keep her half hidden behind his leg. Her hand clutches at the back of his vest. They’re outnumbered and Will’s weapon lies somewhere in the grass several yards away from them. 

The creatures converge on them.

“I’d gladly lend a hand, but I haven’t come into my powers.”

He’d have thrown her a funny look, if the situation wouldn’t have been so dire. As it is, he takes it at face value and runs with it. Her brother is an otherworldly creature; her being one, doesn’t really surprise Will.

“Then you’ll have to run,” he says, eying the softly growling creatures.

“They’ll catch up to me.”

“What are they?”

“Demons and ghosts under the guise of shadows. The ones preparing to attack us are demons possessing humans, but the two at the back are ghosts. They all look alike for you, but I can see the difference. The ghosts are the easiest to kill because their grasp on the humans isn’t strong, so you’d only need to knock out the human.”

“They’re possessing humans?”

She nods. “To make it easier for them to blend in with their surroundings.”

He’ll have time later to ask why she knows so much about demons and ghosts. Right before he pours himself a strong drink to help internalize the fact that he’s not the weirdest creature out there.

“How do I stop the others?”

“You’ll need to kill the human.”

He looks at her. “No.”

“Yes, I’m afraid. There’s no other possibility. You don’t have the power to extract and banish the demon possessing them.”

“Who has,” he murmurs, trying to find options in which they don’t end up dinner for demons.

“My brother,” she says gravely, “but he’s not here, so we’ll have to do.”

“We?”

“I’ll create a diversion and you’ll attack.”

“There are six of them,” Will points out, surprisingly calm. It’s not like he’s counting the seconds until the shadows pounce on them.

“Four. The two at the back are ghosts, remember?”

“Right, the only ones I don’t have to kill.”

“Yes. You learn fast. We might get out of this alive.”

“You’re surprisingly calm and brave considering that our chances of survival are close to zero.”

She grins up at him and that’s when she sees the fear hidden well in her eyes. “We won’t die tonight.” She looks at the creatures. “Ready?”

She draws their attention and when the first one pounces, Will pounces too and they roll in the grass, grappling with each other until Will gets a good grasp of its head and twists hard. Shadows soak into the earth and leave behind the cold corpse of an old woman.

The growl coming from Lady Mischa snaps him out of it. Her usually porcelain white skin seems to vibrate with coils of smoke that disperse as soon as they form. Her eyes bleed black, then it retreats into her pupils and on and on. Her arms are arched at her side, fingers flexing but not curling into fists as if to prepare for something that is not coming.

Will throws himself at the nearest shadow, but this one is stronger and manages to pick him up and throw him off, Lady Mischa’s shout strikingly clear and shrill. He collides with something that’s definitely not a tree midair; it’s smooth, hard and cold to the touch. Also trees don’t have arms that surround his chest like bands of iron.

There are two shots and Will’s staring back into Count Lecter’s hard face, eyes black and almost indistinguishable from the rest of him. His bald head seems to absorb the moonlight rather than reflect it. The shadows surrounding most of his body lick at Will’s skin, making him shudder. They’ve never been this close to him, and now that they’ve had a ‘taste’ of him, they seem to grow hungry. Hungry enough to want to possess him.

He snaps out of it when he’s placed down and Count Lecter snarls viciously at the other creatures.

After that, Will’s only focus, even as he feels his mind crumbling into pieces, is to keep Lady Mischa safe. The count and a woman Will has never seen before are engaged in a vicious fight with the shadows. They never hesitate in killing the demons as more seem to peel off the surrounding shadows.

Will feels a tension in his body as if his skin is holding something back, but he cannot focus on what it is because the shadows are moving in towards them and Lady Mischa is almost ready to pounce on them, if Will wasn’t keeping her back.

The problem is that once he engages them in a fight, he is pulled further and further away from her and even if he’s slashed and bleeding all over the place, the more wounds he receives, the angrier and more— bloodthirsty he gets.

Then Lady Mischa’s voice pierces through the veil of anger and hunger and revenge and hatred that bleeds from the clamoring minds of the demons.

“Hannibal!”

Her fear washes over Will like a knife through butter, dispelling all other emotions. 

He acts on instinct, finding her brother, fallen as a tall shadow with long claws prepares to deal the final blow, and running faster than he knew possible only to take the blow. It doesn’t kill him, but it makes him snarl, bloody spittle flying as he pounces on the demon, taking him away from the count and Lady Mischa. 

There’s a lot of growling and shouting and shooting, but Will’s only focus is to kill this demon, its own thirst and hunger reflected back on him. He manages to twist his head and doesn’t even look to see who it possessed. He will have enough nightmares as it is.

But as he tries to get up, his legs fold under him and the world goes fuzzy around the edges before it all goes blessedly quiet.

***

He wakes to the sound of crackling fire and the smell of freshly baked bread.

He feels oddly refreshed. Like he’d never had nights plagued by nightmares or sleepwalking. Then he becomes aware of a weight on his right forearm and when he looks down there’s a small hand, connected to a familiar body.

Lady Mischa’s hair is dishevelled and in some places there are blades of grass and leaves stuck into it. She is splayed on a burgundy armchair, her head almost on top of her extended arm, her legs curled up under her velvety green and black dress.

Movement from the other side of the room draws his attention and his eyes connect with Count Lecter’s. He looks weary, though not that much. There’s a rigidity to his stance that makes Will feel apprehensive, but after a few moments, the count’s shoulders relax and he comes to stand at the foot of the bed.

“Good afternoon,” he greets softly, relief edging into his voice. “How do you feel?”

Will searches himself. Every limb is intact and he doesn’t feel any discomfort anywhere.

“Better than I ever felt,” Will says, just as softly.

The count smiles a bit and nods. “There’s both water and wine, and a light breakfast if you feel inclined to drink or eat.”

“I’ll take a glass of water, please.”

He has to slowly lift himself on the pillow to drink it, and he only does it slowly because he doesn’t want to wake up Lady Mischa.

“How long was I out?” he asks after he drinks a whole glass of water under the inscrutable gaze of his host and then offers it back.

“A whole night and half a day. Healing the wounds you sustained took a toll on your body.”

Will checks his stomach and chest and there are— 

“Where are all my scars?”

“I thought that might happen.”

“What are you talking about?”

Lady Mischa chooses that moment to wake up. It might be due to the fact that Will has not kept his voice down.

“You’re awake!”

Her smile is beautiful and light, and it pulls Will’s attention like a flame would a moth. She’s almost halfway out of the armchair when she freezes, then looks up at her brother who is standing by the side of the bed, near her.

“May I?”

“It’s not me you should ask for permission.”

Her brown eyes turn to Will. “May I come sit by your side?”

The formality of her voice makes Will chuckle and he scoots over to make space for Lady Mischa to climb into the bed and curl into his side. It feels  _ right  _ in the way few things in Will’s life ever felt, and it confuses him. He shouldn’t feel so trusting and carefree with someone whose acquaintance he only made in the woods at night.

“Is there anything else you wish for Mister—”

Will throws the count a confused look. “No mister, please. I’m Will Graham.”

Lady Mischa giggles. “A pressing mystery has been unveiled at last.”

That doesn’t sound any less confusing. Count Lecter takes pity on him.

“While our acquaintance has been brief and Mischa,” he throws a pointed look his sister’s way, “has had more than one opportunity to ask, we have both failed in obtaining your name.”

That makes Will laugh softly, and Lady Mischa curls more into his side, releasing a pleased sigh, while his hand carefully pats her shoulder. The count watches over them both and Will feels as if he might be dreaming this whole thing up.

***

He is not, in fact, dreaming anything. He’s as wide awake as he’s ever been — which, given his history, it doesn’t say much or reassure him in any way. But the bread tastes delicious, soft and flavourful and he is sure that no nightmare has ever managed to concoct such a vivid experience because nothing hurts.

“This is delicious,” he murmurs, mouth half full, but the count doesn’t seem to mind his appalling manners. “Please convey my gratitude and compliments to the cook.”

Lady Mischa giggles as she takes a bite directly from her slice instead of breaking bits and eating them like her brother does. The count’s smile makes the corner of his eyes crinkle in pleasure and Will’s stomach fills with the flutter of non-existent butterflies. There is hope for him yet, if the count can smile like that because of something Will said, maybe they won’t tell him to leave his home.

“What—”

“That’s my brother you’re complimenting,” Lady Mischa says over him, then takes a sharp breath in. “I apologize for interrupting you. What were you saying?”

“No need to apologize,” Will tells her, then glances at the count who is sitting on the opposite side of the small table, while Lady Mischa sits right next to Will. “You made this bread?”

“I did.”

He stares at the count’s lips probably more than is considered appropriate, if one doesn’t consider Will’s inability to meet the eye of his interlocutor rude. 

“Then you have my utmost gratitude as well as my best compliments, although I am afraid they are not much coming from someone like me.”

“I assure you, Mister Graham, that your gratitude and compliments are well received.”

Will stares at his bread, conflicting feelings warring within his mind. On the one hand, he wishes he wouldn’t be called by his father’s name, but at the same time he is not sure their current situation allows for such familiarity as first names require. His relationship with Lady Mischa is on another level completely. On the other hand, he thinks he might like this side of the count that doesn’t seem to have claws that want Will’s heart as the centerpiece of a lavish dinner.

“What were you trying to say before?” Lady Mischa asks, her attention solely on him even as she eats her slice of bread.

“I wanted to know what happened.” He looks at her brother whose face doesn’t reveal anything, though it isn’t closed off either. “After my senses left me. I see you are both in good health and whole, so the battle has been won?”

The count nods. “It has, indeed.” He glances at his sister. “And Mischa came into her powers. Earlier than it was supposed to happen, but your predicament forced the change.”

The pleased smile she regales Will with doesn’t quite appease his worries.

“What are these powers you are talking about?”

“Like me, she, too, is born of the shadows. Our nature dictates that we need to come into our powers slowly as to become used to them and learn control over them. However, it is not unusual that situations that stress the body and mind would force the shadows to manifest earlier.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“It doesn’t if you have no one there to help you along the way.”

Will stares at the count, a piece of information falling into place. “Yours manifested like that, too.”

He nods, but doesn’t offer any further explanation. They finish their meal in silence, and even if Will expects the jitters to assault him, his mind and body remain surprisingly calm.

“I thank you two for your generosity in offering both shelter and food, but I must return to my home.”

He stands up and notices that the two siblings exchange a strange glance. Lady Mischa is the one who grabs his wrist and meets his eyes.

“During the battle, your house did not survive.”

The only reason he’s still standing is because his body feels stronger and more rested than ever. He still slowly sits down, trying to understand and fit the new reality of things.

“From the depth of my soul, I apologize for that,” Lady Mischa continues.

There’s too much apologizing going around. Too much sadness coming from her.

“I... have nowhere else to go,” he whispers, eyes fixed on the satin blue tablecloth.

“There is plenty of space here to accommodate you,” the count says without much intonation as he finally finishes his slice of bread. He offers wine, but Will declines.

“There is!” jumps Lady Mischa.

“I wouldn’t want to impose on you. You have already shown me so much kindness.”

“But your home is wrecked!”

“Mischa,” the count admonishes softly.

“I apologize,” she says subdued. “Oh! What if we offer to build it back?”

Will stares at her. “That— that would be too much to ask of you. And it is an expense I would not be able to repay.”

She beams at Will as if he just said something that fit right into her plans. “But you wouldn’t have to pay a coin back. It’d be our apology for leaving you without a home and gratitude for saving my brother’s life.”

So pity. Will doesn’t know how to respond to that. He’s been taught all his life to never accept pity because pity would put the benefactor in a position of power over him, and the demands coming from such people were never worth the trouble of accepting their pity disguised as kindness in the first place.

But he also doesn’t think that Lady Mischa and her brother would be that cruel as to make unreasonable demands of him afterwards.

Therein lies Will’s conflict.

“Mischa, that is pity you are offering, not kindness,” the count rebuffs his sister and Will startles slightly for having been read so easily. 

“How so?”

“Even though we have the means and resources necessary to remake the cabin, we must first make a reasonable offer to Mister Graham and then wait for his decision.”

“But why? We can make it happen in a week. It’s as simple as that. He would have his home back before he misses it too much.”

“And that is arrogance.”

“But he saved your life!”

“Wanting to repay that by any means necessary, even at the expense of making that decision for Mister Graham, is still considered arrogance.”

“Because it implies that I know better what the value of his kindness is.”

“Exactly so.”

Lady Mischa falls quiet for a long time. Will is too caught up in his own conflicts to offer reassurance to her, but then she nods as if she reached an agreement with herself, and turns to Will once again.

“Mister Graham, would you like us to help you rebuild your home?”

Will glances at the count, but there’s only a pleased little smile in the corner of his lips.

“What would your help entail?” he asks her which puts her in a position of not knowing how to answer.

She certainly hadn’t predicted that question because in her mind, she thought he would simply say ‘yes’ or ‘no’. The count’s amusement is even more visible this time around as Lady Mischa looks at him for guidance. From far away, in a dark corner of Will’s mind, he too finds this, her reactions, amusing. In the way an elder brother would find their younger siblings’ reactions amusing.

“Anything,” the count tells him, his dark gaze pinning him to the spot, “from asking us to employ the best so they can tend to the construction fully, to you taking charge of the rebuilding and only requiring a few helping hands.”

So there is a choice, after all. He can choose if he wants to be grateful to them for the rest of his life or only for a while.

“You would provide the helping hands?”

“The Lecter name has connections with all sorts of people, and I would ensure that you would get only the best and most trustworthy.”

Will nods absently as his hands pass over the edge of the table.

“Very well, I will accept that.”

Lady Mischa gives a delighted squeal and her brother smiles fully at Will. He has the odd feeling that he has bargained for much more than a few helping hands.


	4. Chapter 4

***

He’s offered a leather-bound kit with tools to trim and shave his facial hair. His beard is the first to receive attention, shaved off to reveal unblemished skin. He starkly feels the chill in the room now that half of his face isn’t protected and insulated. Then he passes the scissors along his eyebrows, trimming them into shape. He can’t do much about his unruly curls except cut the ones that cover his eyes. A comb takes care of the knots and by the end of it, he must say that it’s been a long time since he saw his reflection so clean. It feels like he shaved off a few years from his face.

“I must say,” Lady Mischa says from the doorway to Will’s adjacent room, smaller than his bedroom, curtsying. “You clean up rather well.”

Will inclines his head in greeting. “Thank you for your kind words.” And Lady Mischa titters.

“My brother will be quite pleased.”

She runs off before Will can say anything in that regard.

Later, at dinner, Will does, in fact, receive more than a few glances from the count, but apart from the initial ‘I am pleased to see that my father’s toolkit has served you well,’ there is no further comment on Will’s appearance, so he tucks away Lady Mischa’s comment. Maybe he should have found the way the count leaned in as if to better inspect Will’s handiwork — while taking a deep breath — bizarre. But he reasoned that it must be a quirk of being what the siblings are, though Lady Mischa has never done that before.

In the following few days, Will spends much more time with Lady Mischa as her brother leaves for long hours to fulfill their promise. She doesn’t seem perturbed by the fact that she is alone with a man who is possibly more than a decade older than her. But then again, Will suspects that if he ever behaved ungentlemanly with her, she would be able to put him back in his place succinctly.

He is shown the extensive Lecter library and presented with a short list of facts about every single painting occupying the walls in the main hall and the rooms on the ground floor. She only offers a few words about the rooms upstairs, generally where hers and her brother’s are, and even fewer about the other wing where she informs him that her papa and mama used to live. He doesn’t press for more information about her parents, feeling that it wouldn’t be welcome.

Apart from the Lecter siblings and the elusive Miss Chiyoh, there is no one else living in the castle.

Not far into his unplanned stay at the castle, he begins noticing the secret looks Lady Mischa sends his way every once in a while, mostly when her brother exits the room they are in. He hasn’t managed to understand what they mean or inquire about them. For the most part he manages to ignore them and the fact that he now lives — even temporarily — with the Lecters.

It’s a novelty that Will doesn’t think will ever wear off. 

The count is accommodating with him to the point that Will avoids asking for anything for fear that it might be granted. Sometimes, Lady Mischa manages to trick him into doing just that and the count makes it happen. Here is the lady of the castle musing about certain ostentatious dinners composed entirely of game (and she pronounces that word with a certain meaningful look towards her brother) and thus pulling from Will the knowledge that he has only ever eaten elk once when he was a small child.

The next day, Will finds the count elbow deep into the chest of— an animal, though there is no head or limbs or tail to be seen, just the center part of the body. Count Lecter’s arms are smeared with blood up to his elbow. He smiles at Will when he sees it, and something shifts within Will and he’s not sure what it means. Maybe it’s the fact that the count’s eyes, deeply maroon and, dare he say, delighted, have never looked so hungry to Will. Maybe it’s the smell of freshly eviscerated… animal. Maybe it’s the smile.

Fact stands that Will finds himself turning around and spending the rest of the day in the library, most of the time accompanied by the lady of the castle, pondering upon the shift.

At dinner, Lady Mischa compliments her brother’s cooking and when Will takes a bite of the tender meat, his breath stops in his chest as it falls apart on his tongue and his eyes close to better focus on the flavour. Lady Mischa is none the wiser to Will’s moment of enjoyment, but the count— 

He understands then that all of this is for Will. Just because he dropped an off comment about only eating elk once in his life. Truth be told, he doesn’t remember elk being this tender, more stringy, but that might have been because his dad was never a patient cook.

It scares him how easily even the most inconsequential of his requests — like needing a glass of water after a long walk in the hedge maze with Lady Mischa — is promptly granted.

The count’s attentions make him jittery because whenever he tries to reciprocate, like for example offering to pour their drinks when they eat together, the count gently takes the offer out of his hands. It makes Will feel inadequate, not unlike receiving far more than he can give.

He confesses part of his worries to Lady Mischa, who has become his fast confidant before he knew it had happened. She mulls this over for a few quiet moments as she swings back and forth, this time in plain daylight. They’ve had a couple of days of good weather: not too sunny, but not too dreary either.

“That is the nature of my brother, nothing to worry about.”

“I wish he would let me reciprocate some of the attentions he bestows upon me.”

“Do you wish me to talk to him?”

“I would prefer if my worries remained between us. I wouldn’t wish to offend him.”

She giggles. “I don’t believe that is possible, coming from you.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

She stops her swinging by planting the tip of her blue shoes in the dirt. “My brother is attentive and protective of those he deems close.”

“Like family.”

She inclines her head. “Yes, but not only. Perhaps it is best if you talked to him about this. I assure you nothing you could possibly say would ever offend him. I have a feeling he would appreciate your kind of directness to flowery words.”

Will smiles wryly. “I don’t think I would be capable of flowery words.”

“And my brother will never fault you for that.”

She doesn’t elaborate on that point when he asks and so they return to the castle in time for dinner.

Since their short talk about the situation with the count, Will further notices the particular attention that he is showing Will. As if there is no one there that would be more worthy of his focus. It unsettles Will because he would argue with that notion; Lady Mischa is more than worthy of her brother’s attention. Will, on the other hand, is a stranger taking advantage of their kindness, and thus he is worthy only of the barest minimum. He avoids voicing his unsavory thoughts because he knows already the kind of arguments the siblings would make to such a statement. 

That evening he excuses himself earlier, needing some time alone to think about what the best course action he should take is. How to make the count divert his attention from Will and not offend him in the process, no matter what Lady Mischa told him.

***

“Brother, I believe your particular attention is scaring dear Will away.”

Hannibal stares at her, momentarily caught off-guard which isn’t what Mischa has been going for.

“Has he said anything to you?”

She only stares at him, refusing to betray Will’s confidence, but also unable to not say something in regard to possibly help her brother see better. “Perhaps a subtler approach would work best.”

“I am being subtle.”

“Yet dear Will is more— sensitive to attention than others of our acquaintance. After all, he has lived alone for many years. We are possibly the first and only ones outside his immediate family to have shown him kindness.”

Hannibal looks pensively at his dinner. “He has not been on the receiving end of such attention for a long time.”

“We might even argue that he has not received this particular kind of attention at all.”

He nods, and lifts his glass of wine in salute. “Thank you for letting me know.”

Mischa smiles, delighted at having caught onto something that her brother did not. Not to mention that she has not had so much entertainment in months. Watching her brother try to court Will is a performance she didn’t know was possible. She never saw her brother do that with anyone before. With the way he behaves, the ladies of noble circles, no matter the age, always ended up throwing themselves at him, even when he politely refused them. Perhaps the men should have tried vying for her brother’s attention, too. But there are still many sides of Hannibal she is not privy to.

She only hopes that Will doesn’t feel particularly strong against such attention because she does not believe she would be able to choose between the two of them, if a rupture were to happen in their tentative friendship.

***

The following early morning, something acute wakes Will up just as the bluish-grey dawn light filters through his curtains. He doesn’t understand what it is until something pulls in his chest and he’s out of his bed and room even before he realizes what it is.

He barges into Lady Mischa’s room in time to see the shadows swallowing up her bed and part of her body, pooling on the floor. She looks unnaturally white and still, as if she is paralyzed in her bed.

He calls her name as he hurries towards the bed, but there’s no response. Her ice-cold hand makes Will shiver as he grabs hold of it and pulls.

But the shadows are strong. They might shy away from Will, but they are not relinquishing their hold on her. He pulls, calling her name over and over, desperation settling in when she doesn’t even stir. 

“Hannibal!” he shouts, already on his knees on the bed, trying to at least stop Lady Mischa from descending into the shadows. Within moments — or possibly hours — another set of shadows appear in the weird light of the room and the count’s black form steps out.

He snarls and the shadows on the bed scatter away immediately. The hand that touches her forehead is human and when Will looks up at him, he’s back to being human-looking, dressed up as if he had been up and about already. The crisp air of the forest clings to the count. Will breathes in and out unevenly, still caught in the rush of fear, hands still gripping Lady Mischa’s forearm even as her brother gathers her to his chest.

“You are safe,  _ mylimas,”  _ he whispers, a soft tremor in his voice, “you are safe. Please wake up, darling. I’m here. Will is here. You are safe. We want you to come back, please. We’re waiting for you.”

The whimper makes Will release a shuddering breath.

“Hannibal?” she croaks weakly and he rocks her gently, arms protective over her body.

She looks so frail and vulnerable right now that Will has to force himself to let go of her hand. This is between the two siblings. Will is still an outsider. He’s only glad that he came when he did.

Another whimper from Lady Mischa draws his attention and he finds the count looking at him with something like incomprehension on his face. Then she starts shaking violently in his arms and turns her head to glance at Will.

What Will sees almost robs him of his breath. Her skin ripples like a lake disturbed, shadows making her soft, feminine lines look sharp and dangerous, her eyes completely black before they slip back into a warm brown. Her hand, grasping Hannibal’s forearm grows claws that pierce his moss green velvet coat before they retract.

She pulls away from her brother and whimpers, a plea on her face as she lifts her arms towards Will. He is helpless to refuse her, so he lets her arms rest on his palms, but the moment Will acquiesces to it, he gets a lapful of Lady Mischa that almost topples them over.

The count growls, and Will’s blood sings in his veins, a thrill running down his spine, but Lady Mischa snarls back, and Will’s stunned by this exchange between the siblings. Her brother’s back is to the windows, so his face is shrouded in darkness, but he distinctly feels watched with a possessiveness that he can taste at the back of his throat and he can feel settling over his skin like a heavy mantle. He’s not sure if that is directed at Will as a warning or— 

No. It is a warning. He would feel possessive and protective of his own sister, if he almost lost her to the shadows.

He doesn’t leave even when Will moves his charge to lie on her pillows, her small hands clenched into Will’s night shirt, not giving an inch. She falls asleep like that. The count covers them both and takes a seat in the armchair by the bed, features more clear now that part of his face is turned towards the window. They look carved in stone, impenetrable. His gaze is far away, more closed off than Will has ever seen the count be. 

Then his attention is attracted by something moving on the floor which turns out to be shadows pooling from the count’s legs, licking at the walls. They’re everywhere, silent and insidious. But unlike the ones that tried to take Lady Mischa away, Will feels no malicious intent; nothing direct at the occupants of the room, that is. He feels a sense of safety pervading his body and the last of his tense muscles relaxes. Nothing will get to them. The count is making sure of it. 

Will falls asleep staring at him.


	5. Chapter 5

***

He decides to take Lady Mischa’s advice and talk to her brother that evening after dinner. But what comes out of his mouth is not what he actually means to ask.

“How did I survive?” 

“By wishing to live,” the count replies smoothly.

“There must be more than that involved here. My wounds heal almost instantly. They never did that before.”

“Perhaps you have grown into some powers of your own.”

Will frowns, not really comprehending that. “Impossible. I have not manifested any other abilities apart from being able to heal slightly faster than others.”

“Humans,” the count corrects. “And your healing abilities speak of something inside you that has not fully developed.”

“And now it has.”

“Perhaps.”

Will stares at him. “How did I survive?”

At that moment, Mischa comes into the sitting room with her drawing book under her arm and a piece of charcoal in the other hand. 

“By giving you his blood,” she says simply, then freezes on the spot the moment her brother gives her a dark gaze. 

“You did what?” Will stands up from his chair.

“You were in a critical condition,” the count says, voice calm and composed, his eyes still pinning his sister to the spot. “You would have died of desanguination, if I didn’t act fast.”

“He saved your life, even if it was at the expense of your choice,” Mischa says, a bit desperately. “Please don’t be cross with my brother.”

Will glances from one sibling to the other, trying to find something in there, but apart from desperation and a stoic mask, there’s nothing for him to peel off.

“I wish for an explanation.”

“Mischa meant to say that if I had known that you had a penchant for dying, I might have granted that wish, which is not true.”

“No!” Mischa says at the same time as Will’s, “What?”

“That is not what I meant to say, Hannibal.” He cants his head to the side as if changing the perspective from which he looks at his sister will tell him everything he doesn’t know. “What I meant was strictly in regards to the blood exchange. You took his decision away, even if it was for a good reason.”

“I think I’m missing something here,” Will says, interrupting the intense staring match that’s happening between the siblings.

“It’s—”

“Mischa.”

“Argh, fine, explain it yourself.” She turns around and leaves the room in a huff.

Without the presence of the lady, Will’s attention returns to the count, but the count leaves his armchair to pour two glasses of aged scotch. He offers one to Will, who accepts, and then retakes his place.

“What Mischa said—”

“Blood exchange,” the count begins, focused on the contents of his glass, “among shadow-born is not taken lightly.”

“Yet, you took such an action with me. Why?”

He feels the man’s heavy gaze as it settles over Will, but he doesn’t meet it. The shadows dancing on the walls feel as if they’re holding their breath.

“You saved my life when you could have not.”

“I was— it was a spur of the moment. Mischa’s— Lady Mischa’s horror at losing you— I could feel it as if it were my own. I couldn’t not act.”

He nods. “Nevertheless, I owed you my life.”

“But a blood exchange? You talk about it gravely. Surely it isn’t something that you would bestow upon anyone who saves your life.”

He takes a sip of his glass, the fire reflected in his eyes in drops of white-yellow. “Indeed, I wouldn’t have done the same with anyone. You hold a special place in my sister’s affections. And… you demonstrated that you are someone we can trust. It takes a special kind of person to still want to protect someone born of the shadows.”

Will feels his face go through a few expressions: grimace, half a smile, purse of lips. He schools his features, though, not finding anything appropriate for the confession the count just made.

“What does a blood exchange do?”

“It creates a bond between two shadow-born.”

“But I am not one.”

“Such blood exchanges can only happen between shadow creatures, yes. Or shadow-adjacent ones.” He meets Will’s gaze and maintains it. “My blood would kill a human if I were to give it to them.”

Will narrows his eyes. “You are implying that I’m shadow-adjacent.”

“Yes.”

“How? If you mean to say that me being able to heal fast is considered a shadow ability, then you are wrong. My parents were humans, both of them. I know that because none of them manifested any sort of powers. I would have remembered. It was only me — the one that was different.”

“You are right, they were human. But you were touched by the shadows before you were born.”

He stares at the man, trying to formulate a response to that, but unable to. The count takes another sip of his drink. Will hasn’t touched his.

“When I was six, my mother tried to help your mother,” the count elaborates at length.

“You knew my mother?”

“Only fleetingly. Your father preferred to keep his family away from us, though he couldn’t do anything about our mothers’ friendship.”

“You said your mother tried to help mine.”

The count nods. “She was pregnant in her fourth month and famine had struck our country. She would have died before giving birth to you, so my mother offered her the help of the shadows. Very few non-shadow people know about our existence. We only live in folk tales.” At this, the count was amused as if it was a private joke. “But your mother had proven to be a treasured friend to my mother, so she revealed herself to her.”

“You said it would have killed a human.”

“If blood is involved, yes. But there are ways to use the shadows without threatening the life of a human.”

“My mother accepted.”

He nods. “However, the shadows were not accepted.”

“She rejected them?”

He shakes his head. “Not her. Even if blood is not exchanged, the powers of the shadows are difficult to control on a human. But in this case, there was another thing that neither of our mothers thought about. Your refusal.”

“How is that even possible? I was— I was in my mother’s womb. How could I decide anything?”

“It is believed to be the will that lives within us, even at such an early, premature stage. We have the power to decide things for ourselves, instinctively.”

“So I rejected the help of your mother and doomed mine to death.”

The count smiles. “You are here, are you not? If your mother had died, you would have died with her.”

“Then what happened?”

“A few days afterwards, your mother visited the castle for her monthly check up with our family doctor. I remember that I was helping my father draft some documents when we joined my mother to see yours off. Our personal carriage was prepared to take her back home, but just before she climbed down the stairs, she lost her balance and both myself and my mother jumped to catch her before she fell. At that moment, my hand came to rest on her stomach and all three of us felt it. You responded to me, even though my powers had not manifested.”

“So how…” But he was unable to finish that because he didn’t know how.

“My mother drew on my underdeveloped powers and used them as an anchor to make you accept the help. Five months later you were born, healthier than a king’s son.” There was a smile at that. 

“But it still doesn’t explain what this has to do with the blood exchange.”

“A bond had formed between us when my mother made me an anchor. It wasn’t a strong bond, by any means, and with the passing of time and us never seeing each other after that, the bond disappeared, but some of the powers — the ability to heal — stayed within you. Then the attack happened and you were gravely injured, so I had to make a decision.”

“So you knew who I was.”

“I suspected, but I could not be sure until you said your name. Your father was not fond of my family, even though he was a diligent worker and never betrayed my father. After what happened to my parents, I thought he took his son and left.”

Will shakes his head and sips from his drink. “He didn’t. He died four years ago. A hunt gone bad.”

“My condolences.” It sounds sincere, though not heartfelt. Will supposes that he wouldn’t be fond of anyone who wasn’t fond of his family, either.

“You still haven’t said how you knew for sure that I would survive? You said it yourself that blood exchange is stronger and has lethal consequences and at the time you thought I was a stranger free-lodging in your hunting cabin.”

“When we met at the chapel, you cut your foot. I saw when it healed. It was partly why I chose to give you my blood.”

Did he want to know what the other part consisted of? He downed his glass. “Partly?”

The count nods, but doesn’t offer further explanation and Will decides he shouldn’t press.

“An exchange implies that I perform the same action or one similar to it. I don’t remember giving you my blood, unless—”

“You didn’t. Such an exchange must be done freely, not taken. When it’s taken, it is just savagery that results in death more often than not.”

“So you gave me your blood of your own volition, but I didn’t give you mine. What does that mean for you?”

“It means that there is a half-formed bond. One that will not disappear with time or separation.” He pauses, then, seemingly reluctant to say the next words. “You would have to actively reject it, if you want it gone.”

Will considers that carefully. “How do I do that?”

He sees the count’s jaw clench then, the glass in his hand crackling softly. “It takes fortitude of mind. There must be no doubt that you want to sever all ties with your other half.”

“I apologize for not saying earlier how grateful I am to you for saving my life,” he says. “It must have been a hard decision for you to bond yourself to someone like me. I suppose it mustn’t feel good, considering our differences, so I will endeavour—”

“You misunderstand.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Bonding with someone is something cherished for a shadow-born. Spend too much time in loneliness and then you lose yourself to the shadows and become a brainless demon or a ghost.”

“So the bond keeps you sane.”

“For most of us, yes.”

“But not you.”

“I have come into my powers later in life than Mischa, so I had a good grip on myself. Learning to control the shadows was just another layer that I added to my self-control. However, being as young as Mischa, she inevitably chose an anchor for herself.”

“It is good, then, that she has you as her anchor. You must have a wealth of knowledge about how to best control her newfound powers.”

The count shakes his head. “It is not I who is her anchor.”

Will feels his body going numb. “You cannot mean— I am not suited to fill that role.”

“That is true. I will provide all the knowledge necessary, so there is no need to worry about that. However, your mere presence soothes her, as you have seen the previous day. You instinctively know what to do to remind her of herself. Rest assured that she won’t depend on you for long. Once she gains control of herself and her powers, she will be perfectly all right on her own.”

“How does it feel?” he asks, his mind returning to their previous topic of conversation. “To be bonded to someone.”

“I presume it’s different for everyone.”

“How does it feel for you?”

He takes his time to answer that, and Will is content to wait him out. “It lends clarity to myself in a way that I have never experienced. I see you in a different light.”

“What do you mean?”

The count studies Will’s face and he tries to maintain his gaze at cheek level, but he ends up looking down at his empty glass.

“I believed you to be a simple person, William Graham, but now I can see the fault in my reasoning as stark as nighttime. You contain a multitude, the potential for something great.”

Will can’t help himself, he snorts. “Forgive my callousness, but you cannot be serious.”

“Have I any reason to lie to you?”

He considers that, then shakes his head. “You don’t. But that doesn’t mean that I believe you.”

The count nods as if he fully understands. “Whether you believe me or not, doesn’t make my statement less true.”

There is too much knowing in his eyes for Will to feel comfortable with the turn their conversation took. “So this bonding only makes you see yourself and the other more clearly? That doesn’t sound like much.”

“A bond also increases one’s power and control over the shadows, because it draws on both life forces. But it needs to go both ways.”

Understanding falls into place. “So now you feel like a masterpiece lying unfinished.” 

“Indeed.” He finishes his drink. “But I do not wish for you to complete the bond out of a sense of gratitude or because you feel it is the right thing to do in lieu of what transpired between us.” That’s when he leans forward and pins Will to the spot once again, his maroon eyes swirling almost bright enough to be red, before they go dark. “I would have you come to me willingly or not at all.”

The fact that the count even desires his company, let alone a bond with him, boggles Will immensely. 

“I wish for time to make a decision.”

“Of course,” the count nods graciously and leans back, although never lets Will out of his sight. “No matter what your decision is, our generosity will not suffer from it. Mischa’s affections towards you certainly won’t.”

Will wants to ask about the count’s affections. but he stays his tongue, drowning it in the mouthful of scotch he takes.

***

The growling isn’t an isolated incident.

The search for good helping hands is taking longer than Will thought possible, but Count Lecter reassures him that they should be receiving some answers soon. On the topic of the count, Will sees more of him lately. Whether it’s because they both have common tastes in the rooms they prefer to spend their time in or because one or both seek the other out instinctively, Will cannot tell.

What he is sure of is that the fear he felt in regards to him has receded and shifted into something akin to a thrill whenever they’re near each other.

Since the incident with Lady Mischa, the count has taken to staying home and teaching his sister how to control herself and her powers. This means that at least once a day, Will sees Miss Chiyoh, always in private conversation with the count. None seem to be in a hurry to present Miss Chiyoh to Will and Will doesn’t mind. He won’t be there for long, anyway.

For most of Lady Mischa’s lessons, Will is not permitted to join them as he would distract Lady Mischa’s focus, the count’s words.

Will doesn’t mind that, either. He feels quite content to spend most of his time in the library, not really reading anything, just lounging on the chaise-longue and taking in the quiet of the air around him. Sometimes, the count slips in like a shadow and shares the quiet with Will. Every time he thinks he will feel uncomfortable, distracted, but every time he only becomes aware of the count’s presence when he leaves the library. 

And Will? Will hasn’t had an episode of sleep-walking or nightmares in more than a week — ever since he woke up from his near-death experience.

Time pours out as Will’s mind floats away, thoughts coming and going, so he doesn’t hear the door opening further down the hall until Lady Mischa calls out to him.

“Will! Will! Where are you?” He stands up, about to move towards the door when Lady Mischa opens it and comes running in, her grin infectious when she spots him. “Look! Look what I can do!”

She places her hand between them and Will watches as the skin ripples and black takes over, her nails becoming long, thin claws. The black stops a few inches above her last knuckle. Then her hand returns to its normal white hue.

“Isn’t it brilliant?”

“It is, indeed,” Will agrees, smiling softly at her.

She giggles and then hugs him tightly. It takes him a moment of utter surprise before he reciprocates, gently gathering her to himself. The top of her head barely reaches the center of his chest. He knows, in that moment, that she will grow to be a tall, gorgeous woman who will leave broken hearts in her wake on both sides — just like her brother.

There’s a certain vibration in the air that pulls Will’s attention away only to meet Hannibal’s dark, inscrutable gaze.

“Mischa, your lesson is not yet finished.”

She sighs. “I know, I just wanted to show Will.”

“You have a long way to go before you master complete control over your shadows.”

Another long-suffering sigh as she pulls away and heads for the door. “I shall see you later, Will,” she says, turning a smile and a wave at him before she breaks off into a run.

Hannibal inclines his head regally — and somewhat coldly. Ever since their lengthy conversation the other day, Hannibal has been withdrawn. Not enough to be noticed, but Will’s attention is either on Lady Mischa or her brother, so really, the subtle changes in his behaviour are like blades of light pushing through dense foliage.

He thought that the time they spent together thawed the expanse of icy politeness between them and was helping them build bridges. But apparently he was wrong.

“I apologize if Lady Mischa’s attention has strayed from you,” he says, not standing the silence between them any longer.

“Beg your pardon?”

“Lady Mischa,” he says awkwardly, motioning with his hand towards the open door. “She has been spending more and more time in my company. If you wish that were not so, I could—”

“I am not troubled by the amount of time she spends with you, Mister Graham.”

“Oh. Then I must have offended you in some way.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “What makes you think that?”

Will looks everywhere but at him, hands wringing together. “You, if I may be permitted to infer, have been withdrawn when in my presence.” 

He doesn’t know how much time passes while Hannibal stares at him, but Will feels impossibly uncomfortable in his own skin.

“I am not jealous of my sister,” he says at last, then goes to leave, but stops and looks over his shoulder, “I am, however, envious of how easily you bestow your affections upon her.”

***

“What are shadow creatures and where do they fit in the creature hierarchy? If there is such a thing.”

“Creatures with the ability to command shadows, such as I, are somewhere between demons and ghosts.”

“What is the difference?”

“Every shadow-born is at constant risk of becoming either a ghost or a demon. Travelling through shadows is the last test one takes before he or she is deemed ready. It becomes easier when one has their bonded with them.”

“What happens when one travels like that?”

“There are many demons and ghosts waiting to draw one in. Shadow-born are able to pierce through the veil that separates this world from the other one, but the ghosts and demons cannot do so unless they manage to possess a shadow-born. Hence why full mastery of oneself is mandatory before attempting such a travel.”

“Your black skin…”

Hannibal nods. “It is meant to protect us from the vicious claws and teeth of the demons and from ghost possession.”

“So if you lose control of yourself you— become one of the two?”

“It is a high possibility, but it is not that simple. Young shadow creatures are more at risk of being engulfed by the shadows. You remember what almost happened to Mischa.”

“I do. However, she didn’t show signs that her—” he stops himself abruptly.

“Yes?”

“Before you arrived, her skin— there were shadows going in and out around her, and her eyes alternated between black and brown.”

Hannibal nods. “That is a precursor to a shadow-born’s powers manifesting.”

“But she appeared to be in control of herself.” 

“The shadows are a part of us and our life since before we draw our first breath. So there is a thin barrier separating one’s powers from manifesting. That barrier, if put under constant extreme pressure, will break.”

“Your near-death experience. If I hadn’t acted—”

“No, it was yours.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“When you lost consciousness and I couldn’t ascertain if you were still alive or not, Mischa manifested her powers in an attempt to save you.”

Will doesn’t know what to say to that.

“Mischa does not blame you for anything, and neither am I.”

“But I do. If she hadn’t come looking for me. If I had come to visit her. If she had ran—”

“Dwelling on the past has never come to any good.”

Will smiles, but it feels more like a grimace. “So Lady Mischa is neither ghost nor demon.” Hannibal nods. “She did tell me that ghosts are easier to separate from the human they’re possessing than demons. And that only you had the power to take the demon away without killing the human.”

“I do, but it is a harrowing, draining process. I would not have been able to save everyone involved.”

This time, Will does grimace. “I killed two of them.”

“Does that bother you?”

“I saw the face of one of them. Usually faces haunt my dreams. Bodies, too.”

“Does it haunt you now?”

Will doesn’t answer right away because he realizes his words are more reflex than truth. He has become so used to dreaming both victim and murderer, the ghosts of this land plaguing him even though he has never seen those people, that he needs to take a moment and remember that he has not had issues sleeping since he woke up after the battle.

“It doesn’t.”

“Do faces of dead people you encounter recur in your dreams?”

Will shakes his head. “Not— not people I meet in real life. Until Lady Mischa I have not seen another living person in a few months.”

“So what sort of people visit your dreams?”

“I… dream about… people. People I’ve never met in my life. People who had lived on these grounds before.”

Hannibal looks genuinely surprised and curious. “If you wish to tell me more about them, I am at your disposition.”

“There’s not much to tell. I dream about their violent deaths.”

“Are you a spectator to their deaths?”

Will pauses, sweaty palms stroking his thighs absently. “Not always,” he says quietly.

“Do you sometimes imagine yourself in the place of the victim?”

“Sometimes.” He pauses. “When I was a kid.”

“And afterwards?”

It feels like Will has to pry the answer out of himself. For some reason, this has become the hardest conversation he has ever had. 

“Only… the killer.”

“I see.”

“You must think I’m prone to violence now.”

“If the situation requires it, yes. You have demonstrated your ability to do that two weeks ago.”

Will turns his head and looks at the distant, lone tree, with a wry smile.

“Do not misunderstand me. I do not think you are a blood-thirsty killer who kills indiscriminately to satisfy his urges or have such tendencies. What I believe is that you would gladly be a necessary evil, if it means protecting those you hold dear.”

“Gracefully put, Count Lecter.”

“Please, I am sure we are past such formalities. Hannibal will be more than adequate.”

“Then I ask the same of you.”

Hannibal inclines his head with a smile.

“Do you sleepwalk because of these violent nightmares?”

Will shakes his head. “They don’t seem to be connected.” He frowns at nothing in particular.

“How do you mean?”

“When I dream, I wake up in my bed. But when I sleepwalk, it is always fueled by a desire to reach a destination that I cannot see and I always wake up outside.”

“Intriguing. Do you see anything when you sleepwalk?”

“Only darkness and— and sometimes I think there’s something there in front of me, barely distinguishable from the dark. I believe there are antlers that mesh with the darkness. I try to reach them, but I always wake up before I do.”

“Most interesting. Are these antlers attached to an animal of some sorts?”

“I cannot be sure. Possibly? I never reach them, though I am always drawn to them.”

“Am I amiss in concluding that pain is usually the catalyst of you waking up?”

“No, you are not.” Hannibal nods, pensive, and they lapse into a long silence. “Have my unsavory confessions not put you off?” Will says when he cannot stand the silence.

“On the contrary, every piece of information you unveil or that I can glean from you is precious to me.”

Will feels unmoored by that admission.

“You find me that interesting?”

“I do.”

“I cannot decide if there is something wrong with your tastes or if you have taken leave of your senses.” With any other person, Will would have been on his way out of the house, but Hannibal’s features melt into an amused smile.

“I assure you that my tastes are as impeccable as ever and that my sanity is intact. Rather, it is riveted by you.”

Again, Will doesn’t know how to respond to that.


	6. Chapter 6

***

Three letters arrive at the Lecter castle within the next week. Three people answering Hannibal’s enquiries. Within two days, the men are there and Will reminds himself that this was the bargain he had struck with the Lecter siblings. He wants to rebuild his home.

For reasons unknown to him, he had never gone back to inspect the damage. Probably because he knew what would wait for him or because the Lecter siblings seemed to have him in their spell. But now that he looks at his home, he feels like weeping. There’s only the south wall standing and part of the beams are intact. The rest is rubble and detritus.

The three men — whose names blend together in Will’s mind, but he knows one of them, the less burly one, is called William — get quickly to work. Will feels awkward instructing them, but they’re serious, hardworking people that don’t give off any malicious or hidden intent. 

Lady Mischa had kept them company since she and her brother had come by to bring lunch. That was when Will saw five more people coming with them, two of which were carrying a simple, long table, while the rest had each two chairs under their arms.

Will didn’t have time to ask Hannibal about them because there was lunch and then polite chatter where Hannibal inquired about the backgrounds and whereabouts of the three workers. Will managed to ask a few questions himself and they were all answered promptly and without reserve. They really were honest people, looking to feed their families.

But as the day winds down and the floor becomes visible, Will calls for a stop and they return to the castle where Hannibal generously offered boarding to the three men. Lady Mischa had begged to stay behind, but Hannibal had been firm with her and had reminded her that she still had lessons to attend to. Will also put in his two cents, siding with Hannibal and even if she threw him a betrayed glance, she acquiesced to return with her brother.

Inside the castle, after he bids the workers ‘good night’ and they’re each shown to their rooms by a servant girl, his attention is pulled by the open door to the sitting room and the warm light spilling out of it.

He knocks on the doorframe. “May I join you?” he asks Hannibal who is enjoying a glass of scotch by the hearth.

He bestows a smile on Will. “Please do.”

Will takes the opposite armchair by the fireplace and Hannibal offers him the same drink. 

“Is something happening here?” Will says, taking a small sip. 

“You mean there are servants around where there have been none before.” Will nods. “We are coming upon Mischa’s birthday at the end of this week.”

“I didn’t know.”

“I am sure Mischa will issue a formal invitation to you tomorrow. Will you be able to attend?”

Will shifts. “I— don’t think it would be advisable. I am not what many would call a socialite. Parties make me uncomfortable.”

Hannibal nods, as if understanding. “Then would you be there to help Mischa cut the cake?” Will’s eyes stray to Hannibal’s tumbler. “The party begins at seven and the cake will be shown in at ten, so you will only need to be there a few minutes before. By then I hope you will be done with your work.”

Will thinks about it, then nods. “I should be done, but— I— don’t have any adequate suit for the occasion.”

“Not to worry. I can have my tailor come in tomorrow and take your measurements. By the time the day comes, you will have a tailored suit for the occasion.”

Will shifts again, trying to find the words to refuse without offending.

“Please allow me this indulgence,” Hannibal adds, most probably catching Will’s discomfort.

A wry smile. “I have allowed you many indulgences. It feels like all you do is indulge me.”

“Is that so bad?”

“It feels misplaced.”

“I assure you that it is not. I choose carefully who I spend my attention on.”

“Then I should feel flattered that I am part of such a circle, but I believe this to be the influence of the, uh, bond.”

“We only have a partial bond. It does not affect me in that way.”

“So you mean that a full bond would shift the perception of the other this way.”

Hannibal inclined his head. “To a certain extent. It does not bend one’s will or allow the other to do that. It simply creates favourable conditions within which the two bonded can explore themselves and each other. Of course, it places the need to protect one’s bonded above everyone else.”

“So the need to provide does not stem from this bond.”

“It does not,” Hannibal says, not elaborating further. “You have not had people indulge you before.”

“Are you trying to rectify that?” Will says, somewhat amused.

“If you would allow me, yes.”

“You seem to have no trouble doing that, whether I allow it or not.”

“You are always free to refuse.”

“And risk offence? I might not have been born of noble parents or lived surrounded by such circles, but I do know how easily one can offend someone of your status.”

“Do you think me so shallow as to be offended by a refusal?”

Will pauses, letting his eyes roam over Hannibal’s face for more than a second. “No,” he whispers, realization dawning on him, “a refusal would only fuel your efforts.”

Hannibal smiles, a delighted thing that softens his aristocratic features. “Then you shouldn’t worry.”

“On the contrary, I do worry because I do not know how to repay you for all that you have done and keep doing for me.”

“As long as my indulgences serve you well, then that is all that I wish for in exchange.”

“That is too simple,” Will says, hiding his mouth behind his tumbler.

Hannibal’s eyes catch the fire and they gleam hungrily. “Do you wish to make an effort for them?”

“I wish you would let me reciprocate when I can.”

“Ah.” He nods. “That would be a fair trade. Then would you grace us with your presence for the cutting of the cake in exchange for me providing the suit?”

When put like this, it does sound like a fair trade. Will’s discomfort with so many people surrounding him, taking him in, spitting him out, for the comfort of being well dressed for once. And he is not required to stay afterwards.

Will smiles softly at his drink. “You continue to indulge me,” he says, tone of voice matching his smile.

“A small effort for the continued pleasure of your company.”

Will lets his mind descend into the amber liquor of his tumbler.

***

True to Hannibal’s words, Lady Mischa issues an invitation, first to Will, in confidence, and then to the other three workers, who awkwardly and somewhat politely refuse the invitation, invoking their families as an excuse. They foresee that their work will be done by the end of the week.

Will promises to be there for the cutting of the cake and she’s thrilled by that. She either talked to her brother before or she doesn’t mind that Will won’t be there for the entirety of the party. Or possibly she understands Will. It’s difficult for him to read her now that she has developed her powers. Her mind is fuzzy and ever-changing to him, unless a strong emotion overtakes it.

She stays with Will afterwards, helping whenever she can. Everyone was against a lady such as her dirtying herself with the work made for a man, but she saw no rhyme or reason in their arguments. When Will appealed to her brother’s senses, his only reply was that if Lady Mischa wanted to help and learn, there was no reason why she should be stopped.

So Will has been her teacher insofar as he has knowledge of the process of rebuilding a cabin and Lady Mischa has been his most stellar (and only) pupil. 

In the days that follow, among having two appointments with Hannibal’s tailor for his suit, he becomes a tad addicted to impart lessons to her, whether it be about the polishing technique used for the wood beams or the measurements taken for the position of the windows. She drinks every information in like a thirsty man drinks water likening some of Will’s explanations to some mathematical theories or equations he does not know about. And she asks sensible questions, some of which Will requires the help of his workers to answer. 

By the end of the week, Will surmises, they should be done with everything.

Then they find Will’s metal case of fishing lures and Lady Mischa marvels at the most colorful one Will had made when he had been particularly inspired. It had been the first time he had ever seen a kingfisher that far north. Its colorful plumage of orange, turquoise, and dark blue were the inspiration for the lure that Lady Mischa touches reverently.

It gives Will the perfect idea for the kind of present he will give to her.

Fortunately, she excuses herself during the last two days preceding her birthday so Will has ample opportunity to work on it. He finds a white cloth that he has to dye for his idea to work, but the orange tulips aren’t in season. When one of his workers comes by with white, red, and brown dyes for the treatment of the wooden walls, but also to add a splash of colour to the fixtures inside, Will nicks a bit of white and red and mixes them until he gets the orange shade he needs.

He loses himself into the soothing process of creating something with his own hands for a while.

***

His skin itches under the expensive suit, even though the fabric is incredibly soft. The root of this feeling lies with the glances he is thrown as he makes his way towards Lady Mischa, Hannibal and the three-tier cake. He hears the whispers, but most loudly are their emotions, wafting over his mind like particularly sticky waves, making him feel as if he’s pushed at the back of his body while everyone in the room is trying to inhabit it at the same time.

“Will!” Lady Mischa’s delight washes away most of the troublesome emotions. They become a murmur at the back of his head. “Have you seen how big my cake is?” 

It’s the most excited Will has ever heard or seen Lady Mischa be. Her thirteen years are showing in the beam of her smile, the restlessness of her feet that she tries to calm even as her hands clench and unclench the fabric of her lavish dress. There are dark blue ribbons in her hair, holding two long tails at the back of her head while the bangs and a few delicate curly locks frame her face. Her cheeks are smooth and full, though they have begun to lose the baby fat, shaping to become angular like her brother’s.

He smiles at her. “I have. Truly impressive.”

“Hannibal made it,” she says, her voice so proud that Will glances up and meets Hannibal’s small, pleased smile.

They both feel like the eye of the storm of emotions that the rest of the company presents.

“Mischa,” Hannibal says, gentle admonishment in his voice, “have you not forgotten anything?”

“Oh, yes!” She takes a step back and curtsies. “Thank you for coming to my birthday party.”

Will is fighting both his natural awkwardness at being the center of attention of so many (though two in particular hold more regard to him) and the fondness directed at Lady Mischa. The latter wins.

Will bows respectfully. “Thank you for inviting me.”

She smothers a delighted giggle, though Will hears the beginning of it. “Would you help me cut the cake?”

He smiles more naturally now. “It would be my honour.”

There is nothing incredible in helping Lady Mischa cut the first slice of the cake and carefully place it on her plate. There is, however, something to be said about the fact that not only the attention of the entire ball room is on them, but that Hannibal’s presence at his back is like a protective wall of calm. It’s thanks to this that he doesn’t falter when Lady Mischa decides that Will needs to help her cut the second slice for her brother and the third slice for himself.

Will bears through all of them with incredible poise, only to realize that it only means that he will have to stay behind and eat the slice of cake. The servants who are in attendance, take over cutting the cake and plating it before each guest is served.

There are three layers to Will’s slice and each one is soft and semi-dry, leaving a buttery aftertaste. The cream, one with blueberry bits in it, one with raspberries, and the top one with vanilla (something that is incredibly expensive and hard to find) all mix together to create this rich flavour that keeps Will’s mind focused on it.

“How is the cake?” Hannibal asks as he sidles over to him, a champagne glass in his hand. He must have finished his slice already. Or he begged off eating it, although Will suspects that he wouldn’t do that when his sister (and Will) specifically plated it for him.

“I believe I have not yet reached an adequate mastery of my disposition for you to not be able to glean what I think about the cake.”

Hannibal’s amusement rolls off him. “Indulge me.”

“It is as magnificent as all your other dishes,” Will indulges him, feeling a bout of bravery and giddiness, and meets his gaze. If it is at all possible, he looks positively enchanted by Will’s compliment. “But I think you knew this already.”

He turns his gaze towards his guests, taking them in like a king would his subjects. “Sometimes I need a reminder.”

“That you apply yourself fully to everything you do?”

The smile becomes less jovial and more secretive. “Precisely.”

“I must confess, every time I think I know you, another piece falls into place.”

“The same applies to you.”

“You believe me to contain a multitude?”

“Is it not so?”

“You are mistaken.”

“I have noticed you do not hold yourself in high-esteem.”

Will stares at his empty plate. “Does a fish have a need for more than it already knows?”

“Do you consider yourself a fish?”

A server comes by with a tray and Will deposits his plate. Another passes by with flutes of white wine and Will takes one. He just admitted to being complacent. He needs a drink.

“Perhaps that has not been the best analogy I could make.”

“But it has been the first you thought of. Tell me, Will, do lures work on you?”

The question echoes in his mind, paralyzing every thought. “I— I don’t think I understand.”

“Is that true,” he says in a strange tone. “Or is it that you fear what the answer to that question might be?”

He is intercepted by a guest before Will can compose himself and his scattered thoughts into replying in any way to that. Lady Mischa is conversing animatedly with some ladies and Will is left nursing his drink away from the sea of people. He prefers this moment of respite because he doesn’t think he could be any kind of conversation partner, unless mono-syllabic and unfocused has become accepted in the high circles.

He lets the emotions of the room come and go, too caught up in thinking about Hannibal’s question, coming up with a myriad of answers to it, all false, inadequate, hollow.

Do lures work on Will?

He has never thought about it.

But the more he thinks, the less sure he is of the answer.

After downing his glass, he tries to intercept either Hannibal or Lady Mischa, but the guests have become more animated as the time passed and there’s violin and piano music that has drawn people into dancing. Will really needs to excuse himself before someone either asks him for a dance or starts to talk to him, although neither options seem to be on the table tonight. 

The music changes and the dense sea of people parts to Hannibal’s back. Will moves towards him, but he stops in his tracks because Hannibal bows with a flourish and asks Lady Mischa for a dance, which she accepts with a giggle. Will retreats to his corner and watches the two move across the marble floor as if their feet are caught on a summer breeze that moves softly through the curtains.

He is as mesmerized by their performance as the rest of the invitees, which is why he doesn’t see the man approach him until he is upon Will.

“I know you,” he says and makes Will jolt. His eyes sweep once over him and he takes notice of the man’s ruddy cheeks, bushy eyebrows, and slick, brown hair that has come undone around the temples.

“I do not believe we have made acquaintance,” Will mutters into his flute.

“You’re Graham’s son.” This is not looking to be a pleasant conversation full of platitudes. “That old bastard.” The man downs his red wine and takes another from a passing tray. “He let me die in that ditch, fifteen years ago. Don’t think I forgot. But I’m made of sturdier stuff than he thought, seeing as I’m here, almost whole. Certainly my leg could’ve been better.”

“I’m sure he didn’t mean to,” Will says, deeply uncomfortable about the subject of the conversation. Whatever his father did, Will had not always been privy to. Not that he was home more than a couple of days at a time.

“He did, the conniving snake. He wanted the game all for himself.” 

With every word out of his mouth, his tone of voice is rising, as if Will isn’t a step away from him. He does try to put some distance between them, but the man never fails to bridge it. It unsettles Will so much, people encroaching on his personal space. This is why he’s kept away from civilization. His suit is suddenly two sizes too small and his palms are sweaty. He’s not sure if his reaction stems from feeling uncomfortable or from something else. His tongue itches with rebukes, which has never happened before.

“My father died four years ago. Whatever he—”

“Good riddance,” the man interrupts, then downs the contents of his glass of wine, but no server is nearby to change the empty for a full one.

At the back of his mind, Will feels his hackles rising.

“Whatever offence my father has bestowed upon you, I apologize on his behalf,” he says stiffly, tongue burning with other words.

“He wanted all the glory to himself! I killed the bear, not him. He only managed two deers and a pheasant! Pah! Two deers! And a pheasant!”

He’s sure that his father hadn’t been a saint; he never behaved otherwise. But there is an itch under Will’s skin, urging him to defend his father’s honour even if nothing good will ever come out of it. Certainly incurring the ire of a man already halfway drunk is not how a birthday party should end.

Then the man takes a few steps and places his flute on the pristine white tablecloth where the remains of the cake are. Will stares as the drops of wine that have gathered at the base of the stem soak into the cloth. He looks up almost out of instinct and sees Hannibal watching the same wine glass with something inscrutable on his face, then his gaze meets Will’s.

“This is not the place, nor the time to air one’s grievances,” Will finds himself saying, the steadiness of his voice and impeccable manners coming out of nowhere — or maybe that’s not true. “I ask you to go home and return tomorrow with any formal complaint you wish to address to me about my late father. ”

“Why? So you can deny every word I say like your father did?” The ruddiness of his cheeks becomes more prominent, eyes flashing in anger. He looks poised to strike, but just as Will’s body tenses in anticipation, Hannibal intervenes.

“Is something the matter, Mr. Vidas?” he says, stopping by Will’s side like that is where he always belonged.

Mr. Vidas mustn’t have expected Hannibal to interrupt what he thought would be rightful revenge.

“I was just making acquaintance with Mr. Graham’s son.”

“Mr. Graham does not seem to appreciate that.”

Shock and ire flash across Mr. Vidas’ face. “I was not led to believe that.”

“Is my party boring you, Mr. Vidas?” Lady Mischa asks, coming to stand by Will’s other side, a pleasant, yet dangerous smile on her lips.

“Not at all, Lady Mischa.”

“Then why have we heard you from across the room?” Hannibal says. “Something must be disagreeing with you.”

“Has the cake not been to your liking?” Lady Mischa tag-teams her brother.

“No, it has.”

“Then the wine must be sour,” Hannibal says.

“Not at all. It tastes magnificent.”

“Perhaps the music, then.” Lady Misha turns an affronted glance at her brother. “Our choice in song and instruments has not been agreeing with Mr. Vidas, brother.”

“You are mistaken, my lady.” Sweat has gathered on his forehead, his voice losing confidence the more he’s engaged in conversation by the Lecters. “Everything has been impeccable.”

“It is our choice in acquaintance that has offended Mr. Vidas’ sensibilities, brother,” Lady Mischa says gravely, even as her hands grasp Will’s forearm, stepping closer to him in a protective manner. 

“Most unfortunate,” Hannibal declares, though there is not an ounce of apology or regret there. 

“Mr. Graham would never offend anyone who wishes him well,” Lady Mischa announces, not letting Mr. Vidas say a word in edgewise.

“He is a cherished friend of our family,” Hannibal says matter-of-factly. Will’s limbs grow heavy even as he is acutely aware of the point of contact between himself and Lady Mischa and Hannibal’s presence shy of touching his other arm. “I believe Mr. Vidas wishes to be escorted back to his carriage. Thank you for your presence at my sister’s party and I do hope you have a safe trip back home.”

Distantly, while he watches Mr. Vidas be escorted out by two men, Will wonders if anyone else heard the underlying threat there. The music is the first that breaks the silence and the people hurry to mill about and re-engage in conversation, leaving the Lecters and Will a moment of undisturbed peace.

“Do they know what you really are?” Will says half-heartedly.

Lady Mischa pulls gently on his arm. “Would you lend me your ear?” Will does. “You are the only one,” she whispers in delight.

“You forget about uncle Robert and Lady Murasaki,” Hannibal says, though his eyes peruse the room, wine glass in his right hand.

“I have not,” Lady Mischa ripostes, a haughty tilt to her chin. “Had they have been present, I would have included them.”

“Have they not explained to you the reason for their absence?”

“They have.”

“Then why the rebuke?”

The haughtiness leaves Lady Mischa like wind a billowing curtain. “I miss them terribly.”

“Perhaps an invitation for the month of September is in order.”

Lady Mischa jolts, her surprisingly strong hands squeezing his forearm to the point of pulling a soft grunt from Will. He’s been floating on the gentle wave of calm and quietude effusing from Hannibal, hearing the conversation as if it was happening in the next room.

“Then I could present Will to them! There’s so much to talk about! Uncle Robert loves everything that has to do with hunting or catching prey. I’m sure he will be thrilled to learn about fishing. And Lady Murasaki will appear withdrawn and unfeeling at first, but once you get to know her better, she becomes much more agreeable. She makes so many veiled jokes that most people never catch them. It’s quite funny to see—” 

“Mischa.” Again that tone, between fondness and gentle firmness that Hannibal uses when Lady Mischa is effervescent.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot myself.” Then she studies the crowd for a moment. “This is too much for you, isn’t it?”

Will smiles weakly at that. “It has been a trying evening.”

“Indeed. You are used to me and Hannibal. I apologize for keeping you for so long. Do you wish to retire? I could escort you.”

“I believe Will is more than capable of finding his own room,” Hannibal says, amused.

Lady Mischa frowns at him as if her brother just made her entire plans go up in smoke. It pulls a chuckle from Will.

“Truth to be told,” Will says, “I would be honored if you would escort me to my room. That way, I could give you your present.”

She gasps. “You have a present for me?” Her inner child is showing in the way her whole face lights up with wonder and unashamed excitement.

“I do, indeed.”

“Please show it to me!”

He couldn’t find proper wrapping paper, so he used the cleanest cloth he had to wrap his present. He expects her to tear into it with impatience, but she places both her hands on her present and takes a moment as if it is a treasure, then gently untangles the loose knot and pulls away the corners of the white cloth.

She gasps, throwing Will a wild look. Will is not sure what he’s feeling in that moment, only that his mouth is trying to keep a laugh in.

“Is this—” she whispers dramatically, fingertips touching the colourful feathers and the piece of orange cloth stretched over a couple of switches that have been fashioned in a circle. On top of it, the feathers, turquoise, dark blue and pieces of duckling fluff to add the yellow, splay majestically.

“It is the lure you liked. I made a few changes so you could use it as a wall decoration.”

“This is so beautiful and precious,” Lady Mischa says in awe. “But I have a better idea.” She gathers her present with utmost care and tears towards the door, but she stops just before she collides with Hannibal who has been leaning on the doorframe for some time. “Come!”

Will meets Hannibal’s gaze trying to find something there, but there’s only fond amusement and a hand inviting him to precede Hannibal.

Lady Mischa clambers on top of her bed and hangs the decoration on the headboard. Her delicate fingers smoothing the feathers.

“It will protect me from now on. No shadow will ever be able to take me for as long as I have this.”

Will’s breath stops in his throat and it’s only Hannibal’s hand on the small of his back that reminds him to breathe again. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we reached the end of this impromptu fic. I hope you enjoyed the ride! XD

***

There is no pain this time around. He wakes up to the feeling of something warm grabbing his bare ankle. When he glances down, a face that is somewhat familiar, if there wasn’t so much blood caking his face and throat, looks up at him. The lower lip is missing, his bushy eyebrows caked in blood look like bands of black on his forehead and Will frowns.

“Heeeahhh, heease!” the man is hacking out.

Then Will looks up because his skin pebbles with the knowledge of being watched and what he sees stops the breath in his throat. Hannibal’s shadow form, taller than he is, angular and hungry, stares back at him. Next to him, Mischa’s growling softly, her black, shadowfull eyes fixed on the gurgling man at Will’s feet. She’s still human, except for the black on her hands with the long, thin claws that reach only her elbows. There’s blood oozing from her mouth, teeth sharp and white, adding to the blood soaking into the front of her white and yellow dress, and for a moment Will’s heart is in his throat thinking that she hurt herself, but then the dots connect.

They both approach Will on silent feet. Not one branch snaps or foliage crackles.

“Release him,” Mischa growls at the man whose hand is still clasped tightly around Will’s ankle.

He makes the mistake of digging his nails into Will’s skin which makes him hiss and jolt, trying to get away from him. Both Mischa and Hannibal growl menacingly and Mischa’s claws plunge into the man’s back. The impact makes him cry out and his hand spasm which allows Will to step back.

It’s everything that Hannibal and Mischa waited for because Hannibal waves an impatient hand and shadows lift the man and turn him around so that the clear moon can shine down on the many lacerations on his front. The once pristine white shirt is in tatters, blood and mud mixing and sticking to his sides.

With an animalistic snarl, Mischa slices into him, adding more lacerations, to the man’s continued screams that don’t seem to reach Will. Rather, Will doesn’t feel any pity or disgust at what Lady Mischa is doing to him. He feels like he is in a bubble that protects him from any emotion.

But that is not quite true because he feels Hannibal stepping from the shadows at his back. The coldness emanating from his hardened skin licks at Will’s back without ever touching it, and there’s anticipation pooling in his gut.

“You aren’t supposed to be here,” Hannibal says, but it’s not his voice. It sounds like growling whispers converging to try and make one voice, but they’re always just a bit out of sync.

“I sleepwalked again,” Will says by way of explanation. There’s a curious pause at his back, but he doesn’t dare turn around. Not yet. “Are you going to kill me?” Will’s steady voice asks.

“No.”

Will turns to look at him as Mischa jumps and takes a chunk of the man’s throat. Hannibal stares calmly back at him, waiting for Will to either say or do something, but Will himself is not sure what he should say or do.

“Did you kill him because he made me uncomfortable at the party?”

Hannibal snarls, his stoic features creasing into a grotesque expression. “He needed to be taught his place.”

“What is my place in all of this? Am I your victim, your willing prisoner in this golden gilded cage you have fashioned for me?”

“Neither. Your place is at my side, if you wish.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then I hope it does not mean the end of our friendship.”

It should feel surreal to have such a conversation with a creature that blends better with the shadows in the forest than with Will. But it doesn’t.

“You bonded with me without asking me first.”

“To save your life.”

“I saved yours first.”

The shadow face grins, pointy teeth incredibly white. “An equal exchange.”

“You took more than I was willing to give.”

“I couldn’t avoid it.”

“Do you wish to give it back?”

“Never. You are mine. Always will be.”

“And if I refuse?”

“It changes nothing.”

“It changes everything,” Will challenges.

Hannibal cants his head. “I have made my decision.”

“And by doing that you took away mine.”

Another contemplative pause. “What are you really asking of me, Will?”

“You didn’t give, you took.”

“It was a life and death situation. I could not let you die, even at the expense of your consent. You have been informed about the way in which you could refuse the bond, and yet it is still in place. I took away your consent, but in exchange I gave you power over me.”

“Is that a fair exchange, then?”

“It is, in my books. I value my freedom just as much as you value being able to make a choice.”

Will doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t because they’re reaching a point in this conversation that will determine the way forward for both of them.

He stares at Hannibal, for the first time unwilling to look away. “I saw your head crowned by antlers,” he whispers, placing his hands on Hannibal’s prominent ribs and wishes he could see more of an expression on his face. “That was what I’ve been trying to reach all this time.”

Hannibal’s head distinctly misses the antlers. Will lifts himself on his tiptoes and Hannibal leans down. It’s Will who kisses him, accepting all of him into his mind. Hannibal gasps into his mouth and his claws dig into Will’s arms as he bends over him. 

Will’s eyes are open, unable to let this creature —  _ his  _ creature out of his sight. He watches as antlers burst from his head, pulling at Will’s chest before Will feels a transformation assaulting him, too, and he cries out and growls at the same time as he stumbles back and then falls to his fours.  _ Something  _ digs its way out of his back. The pain makes his body feel like it’s on fire, makes it feel like it is endlessly licking at his mind.

When it stops, the only thing that he can hear is his laboured breath. He thinks, from far away, that the black substance that’s oozing from his mouth is his blood. Strong hands help him up and when he looks around, the whole forest has exploded into light and shadows. It’s like the very air shimmers with particles of light which only accentuate the shadows. There are cumulations of shadows in certain parts of the forest and he knows instinctively that those are doors to other parts of the forest or the world.

But when he looks up at Hannibal, his crown of antlers is on fire where it hasn’t been before: a white-blue fire that seems to also live within Hannibal’s black eyes. There’s a smile on his face and Will feels his face mirroring it.

“Welcome, dear Will,” Hannibal says and it is his own voice, not the one he heard before, this one is crystal clear and melodic. It must have something to do with Will’s own transformation. “Welcome home.”

Later, he discovers that his eyes are as black as a lake at night, and the shadows surround them, consuming his veins, wisps like smoke constantly living at the corner of his eyes. His mouth is perpetually black, oozing something that might be his own blood or something else from between his teeth. And there are antlers on his back, fanning like wings. His claws are not as long as Hannibal’s or Mischa’s or as thin, but they are strong and lethal, the black skin enveloping his hands and wrists only.

And when he first travels by shadows, the mastery of his newfound powers helped along by the bond between him and Hannibal, demons claw at his skin, drawing blood before the wounds heal, and ghosts try to possess him, to rob him of his breath. It’s harrowing and Hannibal snaps and growls and claws the demons off him until Will begins fighting back, and he feels a vicious anger at seeing those demons’ claws try to grasp at Hannibal.

They stumble in Hannibal’s chambers and Will snarls at him, his anger needing an outlet. Hannibal takes it, takes him when Will throws himself at him, now human-shaped and Will should also push back his transformation, but he’s too busy plundering Hannibal’s pristine mouth. This newfound hunger — or rather, building anger — pushes away his reasoning to give space to his instincts.

Hannibal drinks him in, takes everything Will throws at him, all the while seeming to desire more, hungering for more of Will.

It’s Hannibal who growls into his neck, sharp teeth pricking the skin, and forces Will’s transformation back only to be able to slam him into the wall. Will gasps and pulls at Hannibal’s clothes, wanting them off. Now.

He’s not in control of anything, so it’s good that at least Hannibal knows what they’re doing, because Will is consumed by the desire to take and bite and  _ feel.  _

Clothes disappear and it’s just skin-on-skin and Will bites at Hannibal’s lips enough to draw a bit of blood before it closes and Hannibal growls, low vibrations that pool in the pit of Will’s stomach and makes him grind his hardened length against Hannibal’s stomach.

Hannibal slams him against the wall again and bites into his shoulder, Will hissing when it pierces and draws blood before the punctures close. He writhes even as Hannibal presses just to hear his possessive snarl, muscles tensing all over his body. His cock slides between his cheeks, coating both Will’s ass hole and Hannibal’s member in pre-come.

There’s no preparation, and Will draws in a sharp breath as he feels the burn all the way until Hannibal is fully sheathed inside him. Neither is patient after that, biting and thrusting and kissing and gasping, his hand stroking his cock in time with Hannibal’s thrusts until they both spend themselves.

Hannibal’s strong enough to keep both of them upright afterwards, even as Will completely settles his weight on top of him.

Slowly, Hannibal lets Will down, though Will asks for more kisses which are given freely. He pushes at Hannibal until he falls on the bed. Will climbs on top of him and begins coaxing their cocks back to life by using the come Will left on Hannibal’s stomach. It’s messy and imperfect, sometimes making them wince when Will squeezes too tightly, but it’s what both of them want. He feels it in his bones, a deep vibration that makes Will lose himself in the sensation of another’s body pressed so close, so intimately to him.

There’s a continuous exchange of emotions now that Will fully accepted the bond and it’s this that puts into stark contrast all the years of solitude he has lived. He drinks in the feedback avidly, unable and unwilling to stop himself.

And Hannibal? He lets Will in, feeds him everything and Will feels himself full to the point of spilling over but still so, so hungry for his bonded.

Hannibal’s palms stroke Will’s thighs, encouraging his ministrations, and then Will meets his eye, understanding passing between them like it wouldn’t happen, if they were fully human.

This time, it’s Will who thrusts in, grunting as Hannibal resists him until he relaxes. They have both taken the edge off, so Will doesn’t hurry, just lets his hips ebb and rise, until he climaxes and then sucks Hannibal off until he does too.

*** 

Will wakes up to the most delicious smell of food he has ever breathed in. When he opens his eyes, Hannibal is clad in his breeches and a loose cotton shirt. He wants to pull the collar of it over his shoulder and bite into his skin. No mark they leave on each other will last, but that only makes them both try again and again.

Fondness trickles down the bond as Hannibal feels him waking up.

“Good morning,  _ mylimas,”  _ Hannibal murmurs, his back at Will, and Will becomes aware of him in a way that he has never been before. Like a clearer presence in his mind without it encroaching on his thoughts.

“Morning,” he mumbles, pushing himself on his elbows. “What’s for breakfast?” He yawns and sits up, stroking the sleep away from his eyes.

But when he opens them, a breakfast table with a tray on it is placed above his lap, with Hannibal on the edge of the bed, facing him. Taking the stainless steel cloche off reveals a bowl, flanked by a fork and a knife, and four toasted slices of homemade bread adorning the top of the plate.

The bowl contains a brown-red sauce with bits of carrots and what looks like potatoes and in the middle a single piece of meat, half of it submerged by the thick sauce. He looks at Hannibal, then behind at the empty desk near the window.

“Are you not eating?” he asks, even as his stomach growls, the divine smell assaulting his senses in the most appetizing of ways.

“Not yet.”

He frowns. “There is something I’m missing here.”

Hannibal smiles, the pointed look in his eyes never leaving. “We are bonded irreversibly now. Instinct dictates that the healthiest part of my first catch is offered to you, my bonded.”

That confuses Will even more. “But you haven’t hun—” Realization dawns on him as he picks his fork and lifts part of the meat out of the sauce. “This is his heart.”

The pleased, predatory smirk makes a shiver travel down Will’s spine and wake up his cock. 

“I was within my right to take two organs, one for offending you and the second one as my offer to you as my bonded, but only the heart was untouched by his human vices.”

Will doesn’t know what society dictates — well, if he is to take that into account, he should be screaming and running as fast and as far away as possible by now. He feels no such reaction assault him.

What he feels is a ravenous hunger. For both his breakfast and Hannibal.

He picks up the knife and starts eating. The more he eats, the hungrier he gets, and he doesn’t stop until he cleans the last of the sauce with the last piece of toasted bread. He leans back with a satisfied sigh, watching Hannibal as he takes the breakfast table away.

“What happened to Lady Mischa?”

“I believe we are past titles,  _ mylimas.  _ But to answer your question, she is still sleeping in her room. I checked up on her before returning to our bedroom. _ ”  _

A thrill courses through his body at the use of the possessive and Hannibal’s smile gets sharper.

“Was she all right? I— lost myself last night for a while.”

“She was. She is no stranger to the forest or the shadows.”

“Is it safe for her to be around at night with the shadows trying to get her?”

“She’s been getting better at controlling herself and the shadows. Besides, Chiyoh was nearby. Mischa reached the castle safe and sound.”

He bends a knee on the bed and leans down to kiss Will like he’s been starving for it.

“I’m still hungry,” Will says against Hannibal’s lips, feeling the shadows lick at his skin, claws pushing to come out.

“I’m all yours.”

Will discovers areas on his body that he didn’t know could feel so good, and Hannibal discovers that he has a third orgasm to give his bonded.


End file.
